Observer See, Observer Do
by Uroboros75
Summary: Cast out by his fellows and stripped of his powers, September is forced to seek out the Bishops to help him adjust to life in the human world. Hilarity ensues.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Greetings!_

_Before you begin to read what I hope will be an entertaining story, allow me to get a few formalities out of the way:  
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_The story is set an indeterminate amount of time after 2.08 August, and is pretty much AU. So no August, unfortunately...:'( _

_The rating (so far) is T. Expect language, some crude humour/vulgarity, and other such things in chapters to come. I'll be sure to notify you all if ever particularly noteworthy subject matter surfaces. Also, updates will come when they come (i.e. who knows when). This is a secondary project, so it has less priority. Still, I will try to make a new outing every now and again.  
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_Comments are always appreciated; this is my first venture into comedic territory, after all, so if I'm not doing it right, be sure to be uncompromising in your punishment. ;)  
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_And lastly, I am in no way responsible for the absolutely weird, deranged, and absurd things that spawn from my mind. If at any point you should find yourself disturbed, then I am truly sorry. XP  
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_So with that, enjoy!_

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 1<span>**

"Do you know why we have summoned you here?"

If one knew of this place and of its nature, they would surely describe it as old. Ancient, even. But to rely on the concept of age is a rather counter-intuitive way to approach things; for age is a measurement dependent on the linear passage of time, whereas this place – much like each of its eleven current occupants – simply was, just as it has always been and always will be, from the inception of worlds to their ends, and from their ends to their inception.

This place didn't come with a name. And neither did it really need one; no thing in existence truly does. Of course, there are those that would still try, but no name they could craft would ever be adequate enough, for while it is relatively simple to assign something a name, to give a name to this place of all conceivable places was wholly inconceivable. No words, no matter how eloquent or concise, could ever measure to such a daunting task, being doomed to fail from the start.

Yet in the early times of their kind, they found it rather difficult to refer to a place without a name; for while they each understood it intuitively on an individual level, to communicate the idea of this place amongst one another – be it verbally, mathematically, or visually – quickly proved futile.

So for the sake of convenience, they devised a name that was as simple and succinct as their collective minds could conceive:

The Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place.

September stood at the relative center of the location he had once helped name, a singular beam of light descending vertically upon his being. His fellows, ten in all, were arranged in a circle around him, each standing on nondescript cylinders of varying heights, they too basked in columns of light; there was an extra unoccupied column as well, the member's absence made more apparent by the illumination. And beyond these eleven faint rays of luminosity was a void of darkness that went on without end, yet was not quite boundless. Such a thing may seem paradoxical, but that is to be expected; like Time, the peculiarity of Space in this vast construct was yet another physical property that could not be properly rationalized by the mind.

That is, of course, save by the dozen who were born of it, and it of them.

When September did not respond to the query, December, who stood on the tallest of the circle's pillars, continued.

"You have been called here – to the Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place – to answer for your actions. You have altered the flow of the Great Causal Chain that governs all things due to your inexcusable lack of discipline and judgement. What do you have to say in your defense?"

September was silent for a few moments, then replied, his voice reverberating in the silent, cavernous void beyond.

"I do not know what happened," he said. "As was intended, I positioned myself at the corner of Wallace and Long. There, I waited for the Prime Variable to enter the system so that I could collapse the event to the specified outcome. But then, as I was recording my preliminary observations, a stray dog approached me; I could not have anticipated that it would begin to repeatedly thrust its pelvis against my leg. I attempted to dissuade it from continuing, first with verbal commands, then through physical intervention. But the dog was persistent, and by the time I was able to prevent it from further interrupting my observations, the Prime Variable was already passing by in their vehicle, and it was too late to prevent the resulting collision at the intersection."

"This is not the first time you have failed us," reproached December. "Need we remind you of your previous mishap?"

"But I was able to correct that mistake," noted September. "I saved the Boy at the frozen lake in the year 1985 of their reckoning."

"You were able to prevent the Great Causal Chain from deviating any further than it already had," clarified December. "We have been toiling ever since to attempt to restore the delicate balance you have upset. And now, with your most recent blunder, the Chain is deviating even further from its intended course, and it is unknown whether even _we_ will be able to undo the damage that you have wrought."

September had the presentiment that something unfortunate was about to unfold; but as December continued, the truth of the situation revealed itself as far more grim than he had anticipated.

"You have proven time and time again that you are unfit to carry out the duty with which you have been bestowed. It is regrettable to say this, but you have become a liability."

"What are you saying?" asked September.

"I am saying that you have become a liability."

"No, that is not what I meant," said September. "I was in fact inquiring on the intent behind your message."

"Oh... I see."

Even after uncounted aeons of conscious existence, the subtleties of communication were things they had yet to fully master.

"Yes, well... in any case," resumed December, "we have been deliberating on this matter for some time, and have agreed upon a course of action." He gestured to the rest of his elevated comrades. "The decision is unanimous. In order to increase the probability of succeeding in our endeavors, we have decided to expel you from our ranks and cast you out of the Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place. Forever."

Upon the issuing of the verdict, the platforms surrounding September descended into the floor, the beams of light fading away. September found himself reeling from the finality of the verdict as his fellows converged on the rectangular block that was emerging from the ground before him. It too was nondescript, and like all things that took form in this place, it was comprised of the physically-actualized potential of space itself, which they referred to as Matter, Yet Not Matter.

The others gathered around December, who stood on one side of the block, while September stood on the other, staring blankly into space, struggling to compute the implications of the fate that had befallen him.

"Relinquish your Communication Module Device Phone," ordered December, gesturing to the block.

After several moments, and with great reluctance, September placed the square device on the center of the dull, grey mass of Matter, Yet Not Matter, and in the span of precisely 1.618 seconds, the module flickered and disappeared, absorbed directly into the non-local information matrix of the Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place.

"And your Binocular Telescopic Looking Gadget," prodded December.

September obliged, still with the same hesitance, placing the collapsible set of binoculars on the surface, only for it to fade away.

"And your Hourglass Clock Display Mechanism."

He placed the simple pocket watch on the block, and it disappeared.

"And your Observation Report Log Records and Associated Pen."

He placed the notebook and pen on the block, and they disappeared.

"And your Plasma Pistol Energy Weapon Gun That Goes _Wheeeoooo._"

He placed the gun on the block, and it disappeared, and with it, the last of the items he was carrying on his person.

"Now for your briefcase."

November came to retrieve the briefcase that September was carrying before stationing himself at one end of the block. He then opened it and began to remove its contents one by one, passing them on to December, who placed them on the center of the block as they came into his possession. Mission-specific documents and photos, a metallic thermos, moisturizing lotion, a yo-yo, three and a half corn dogs; they all disappeared from sight one after the other.

Last to be addressed the briefcase itself. Upon being placed on the center of the smooth, gloss-less surface, it began to flicker and faze, but did not immediately go away as was expected. They looked at each other, perplexed; a few kicks to the side of the block immediately rectified the problem.

"We will also require your hat," said December.

"My hat?" asked September, stupefied. "But... I am fond of my hat."

"Be that as it may, we must nonetheless insist that you part with it, as it is a symbol representing your affiliation with us."

September slowly removed the fedora from his smooth scalp – the very same fedora that had been with him since he first came to be – and handed it to December. With each personal effect that was confiscated, a portion of his identity was taken away as well; the fading of his beloved hat was the nail in the coffin of this realization. If he was not one of them, then who was he? The thought was highly distressing.

It was at this moment that he decided he didn't like any of this very much; he hoped that there wouldn't be more.

"I'm afraid that there is more," said December.

As he spoke, the block of Matter, Yet Not Matter sunk into the ground, just as another Matter, Yet Not Matter structure emerged some distance behind September, complete with illumination. Sensing the formation of this new structure, September turned; it was a circular pyramid of sorts, with three concentric rings forming steps that led to the fourth and final tier.

"What is this?" he asked, analyzing the unassuming platform, barely five feet in stature.

"In order to minimize any further influence you may have in the unfolding of the Great Causal Chain," explained December, "we must strip you of your power."

September's head swiveled to December. Strip him of his power? How could such a thing possibly be achieved?

"I do not think that this is necessary," protested September. "If you would simply grant me the opportunity to correct my mistake –"

"We have no choice," interrupted December. "You are statistically predisposed to commit further errors, and we can no longer afford to keep you in our company. Escort him to the Power Sucker Thing."

February and July, who happened to be the closest to September, heeded to December's words. To an outsider, December would have most likely seemed like the leader by now; but in reality, his role was more akin to a team captain, merely tasked with making all the official statements and decrees, as well as supervising their operations. He held no more influence than the others, but they always responded to his commands. It was the way things were, and not one of the twelve questioned it, a fact ingrained in their very nature.

And while September was very much opposed to what was currently happening, he could not bring himself to betray his own nature either, and could do nothing more than let July and February lead him arm in arm to the platform in the distance with widened eyes, the rest trailing behind.

February and July released their grip once September was placed in the center of pyramid's top platform. He turned around to see his brethren grouped in a loose semi-circle, watching with dispassionate faces.

"It is unfortunate that things must play out in this manner," said December, speaking for the group. "But please understand that this, as with all the things we do, is only ever in service of That Which We Serve."

As December spoke, something started to rise behind September.

Something big.

He pivoted to see a large figure shaped in the likeness of their kind rising from the ground. And as it rose, its features were gradual revealed. First a bald head, devoid of eyebrows and expression; then, a suited torso with forearms held out, palms upward. It came to rest at the knees, the overhead column of light illuminating a figure thrice their size, staring straight ahead.

The eleven of them craned their necks to gaze at the silent titan.

"Behold," said December, affectless. "The Power Sucker Thing."

September tilted his head, both admiring it and wondering what would happen next when the grey figure's head drooped forward, its unseeing eyes seeing all, piercing September with its gaze. He was so transfixed by its infinitely deep stare that he did not see its arms move in to grab his ankles. He barely had time to look down at his feet before it lifted him off the ground, and September rose into the air upside down, arms dangling limply. As he swayed, he could see his comrades watching him; but he could also see that the platform he previously stood on was morphing into something new. The pyramid was inverting itself, with the top layers sinking down as the outer rings rose and curved, coming to form a long, hollow cylinder.

Then it shook him.

With short, rhythmic movements, the mighty figure shook September up and down. Nothing seemed to be happening at first, and the actual purpose of such an action was coming into question; but in moments, September started to glow, and a fine golden dust began to seep from him, falling gently into the receptacle below.

By this point, September was screaming, though it wasn't really screaming, so much as it was a monotone wail. Were one to witness the event, September would have seemed bored and uninterested, jiggling limply and crying out in the deadpan voice of someone putting minimal effort into faking an orgasm; but in reality, he was terrified, something exacerbated by how he had no concept of the word that is usually employed to describe the foreign and unwelcome sensation that was assailing him.

Slowly, but surely, the energy that gave September his superhuman abilities was literally being shaken out of him. After a full minute of rigorous shaking, the thickness of the glittering dust cloud began to dwindle, until only specks fell from September's body. The grey titan gave September a few last, hard shakes to wring out the last of his power-dust into the receptacle before placing him onto the floor at the side of the cylinder. Following this, the Power Sucker Thing grasped the receptacle – which was, as September could now see, shaped like a cup – and drank the entirety of September's power, downing it in a few silent gulps.

Then the Power Sucker Thing, satiated, wiped the power-dust mustache that had formed on its upper lip with its sleeve before descending into the ground, September's power along with it, both forever lost to the Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place.

Following the ritual, the others approached September, who was lying on the floor. The ordeal had been so far removed from his experiences that he had been wailing long after the Power Sucker Thing had dropped him, and he continued to bellow in his toneless voice as his brethren encircled him; though as October and May came and helped him to his feet, his yells diminished to whimpers, then to nothing.

September's head was swimming, and he was having a hard time maintaining his center of balance. With his powers gone, he was terribly disoriented, feeling weak, restricted.

Powerless.

"Now that your power has been stripped, we will proceed to banish you from this place," announced December. "And seeing as an event such as this is unprecedented in the history of our kind, we have decided to banish you in a manner befitting these circumstances."

A gateway leading beyond this place materialized a dozen feet from where they were amassed, and September's colleagues promptly formed two rows leading to the door. December then placed himself at the mouth of these rows, facing September directly before delivering his final words.

"So it is that we, the Servants of That Which We Serve, forevermore cast you out of the Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place. You are no longer welcome here, and neither may you ever return. And should you ever attempt to interfere with us or the unfolding of the Great Causal Chain, we will have you terminated without hesitation. Now, go. Leave this place, and never come back."

With that, December went to take his place in the file; at his beckoning, September began walking clumsily into the corridor they formed.

And as he passed December, he was struck square in the ass with a paddle.

He looked back at December, who was now holding a grey paddle formed of Matter, Yet Not Matter.

Then he turned to face the door, only to see the other nine also wielding similar paddles.

With nowhere else to go but forward, September stumbled down the aisle, and his former brethren proceeded to shepherd him along one spank at a time, every one of them uttering the same phrase before they swatted his cheeks.

"Have a nice day."

September tried to brace himself at every inevitable spanking, but he was always caught by surprise, stumbling forward and emitting a dull cry of slight annoyance and pain. By the end of the run, his buttocks were inflamed, and he wrestled with a flurry of unknown emotions elicited by the additional torment he was forced to endure at the hands of those he had known for his entire existence.

And as his hand came to rest on the door's handle, he gave one last glance to his former comrades and to the construct that he had known as home for the last time; they stared back with eyes filled not with malice, but with duty (except for March, who had always been somewhat of a jerk).

Then with eyes lowered to the floor with what he didn't know as shame, he opened the door and exited the Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place, which January closed behind him with a resounding, ominous _boom_.

"... Are you alright, Mister September?"

September looked to Brenda, their receptionist, whose traits were line with puzzlement and concern.

"I... I do not know."

The former Servant of That Which He Used To Serve then painfully shuffled his way out of the receptionist's office, taking the elevator from the Richmond Building's seventh floor to its first, all the while wondering what in the hell just happened.

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><p><em>AN: It gets funny, I promise. XD_

_Reviews are welcome!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: __There is some strong language at points in this one (as a note for those more prudish than others). Can YOU find them all? XD  
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_With that, enjoy!_

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><p><strong><span>Chapter 2<span>**

He stood for about an hour at the foot of the Richmond Building, just standing there, looking around at the people that passed by. He debated with himself whether he should move or not, but every time he prepared himself to take a step forward, he stopped.

Where was he supposed to go?

September turned to look up the building's face, its numerous glass panels shimmering as they reflected the light of the morning sun. It was clear that he couldn't go back; that much he knew. But his banishment brought along many other problems, chief among them the inability to travel through space and time. Since the Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place was connected to all Planck times in the collective histories of all worlds, it served as a sort of a convenient hub for September and his kind; to travel between various worlds and their associated eras, the Servants of That Which They Served needed simply to enter there in one place and time, then exit into another.

The prospect of having to pass the rest of his existence in a temporally linear fashion, then, came as highly distressing to him. So many moments, so many places, so many things were now beyond his reach. So many possibilities.

So much food.

_Food_.

It then occurred to him that he would have to eat soon; the constriction in his gut and accompanying gurgle made it more than clear. So with hunger as the catalyst, he marched forth into the city, first taking a right, then backtracking to the left when he changed his mind to go the other way before turning point yet again upon deciding that his original route was in fact the superior one.

As he made his way down the street, he struggled to cope with the disparity between the world as he had always experienced it and this new world that he was now experiencing. Where he once had temporal prescience, able to see things as they would unfold before they unfolded, his perception was now restricted to the present as it was happening. At first, he was having a hard time anticipating the movements of oncoming pedestrians, who looked at him strangely as he passed; he bumped into more than a few along the way.

"Watch where you're going, pal!"

"What the hell's the matter with you?"

"Wear a goddamn hat for Christ's sake!"

But as he navigated the sidewalk, he found that the powerful computational capabilities of his mind still remained, and while his mental potential was diminished in the absence of his abilities, he slowly learned to calculate the probable outcome of the various synchronous events that were occurring around him, and was therefore able to adjust his trajectory, minimizing the risk of initiating any further collisions as best as he could with his sore musculature.

Or so he thought; for little did he know that it wasn't really his observational skills that made the task easier, but everyone else, cautiously keeping their distance from the strange bald man who was walking as though he had soiled himself.

September then decided to test the rest of his abilities in order to assess what other faculties he might have retained. For a start, he discovered that he could no longer teleport at will. He went to a secluded alleyway for a test run, closing his eyes and standing in place, bobbing up and down to initiate the teleportation process. But after a few minutes of steady bobbing, he opened his eyes to find that he didn't move an inch; the only thing he actually did manage to do was to profoundly disturb the nearby homeless man who had been watching the whole time.

He also found that he had no more quantum mechanical influence on the course of unfolding history, just as the others had forewarned. Nor could he interact with mechanical and electric systems through touch anymore, as evidenced by repeatedly jacking his thumb into the locks of cars stopped at red lights.

The only things he had retained were his natural thought processes, his innate computational and observational prowess, and his biological need for large quantities of edible sustenance.

By lunchtime, he came to a stop before a McDonald's, staring through the window at the multitude of people and the delicious foods they were eating. He looked at the promotional posters, advertising the prices of their products. Seeing this, he reached into his pockets, but to his great dismay, no money was to be found; he removed his hand only to see small bits of lint. He wondered if they would accept lint in exchange for a meal, but then figured that the probability of lint passing as acceptable substitution for money in this particular situation was very low, so he resigned to stare into the window, watching others eat the food that was denied to him.

"Excuse me, sir," said a man suddenly, addressing the individual who was pressing his face against the window. "We're receiving complaints from our customers saying that you're bothering them. If you're not coming in the restaurant, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

September removed his face from the glass pane to see a young man wearing a McDonald's uniform, standing with arms crossed. He then turned to the window, where a family was also staring at him from their table, similarly nonplussed and somewhat appalled by his appearance. Seeing this, September left without a word, head slightly drooped, realizing that without money, he would have to forgo food for a long time, perhaps even forever.

And for the first time in his conscious existence, September had missed a meal.

Disheartened, he wandered around the city for a few hours before stumbling on a park. He made for a bench down the path; his ankles, as with the majority of his body, were still aching from the rigorous shaking at the hands of the Power Sucker Thing, and he deemed that his feet needed rest. However, he was met with sharp pain as he sat due to his buttocks still being quite sore, so he quickly rose to alleviate the intensity of the alarming sensation, a single thought piercing his mind.

_Hemorrhoids_.

He recalled having once read somewhere that humans could develop something called hemorrhoids, which could cause great pain when trying to sit down. Could it be that his former comrades had spanked him so hard that they have given him hemorrhoids? He began to think that they probably did; it was the only reasonable explanation as to why his hindquarters hurt so much when he sat down.

He reminded himself to consult a doctor sometime soon.

Confused, famished, and in pain, September meandered aimlessly throughout the park, sometimes staying on the paths, sometimes not, passing by trees, squeezing through bushes, and absent-mindedly waltzing straight through a couple's romantic picnic, kicking food and utensils all over the place (an act for which he was promptly chased away).

He eventually stumbled upon a children's playground, devoid of any occupants. September thought this to be a fortuitous find; perhaps these contraptions would help him take his mind off his problems.

With that in mind, he entered the designated play area, the gravel crunching beneath his polished shoes. First he tried the slide, but found it to be a woefully underwhelming experience. Then he tried the merry-go-round. He wasn't sure what purpose it served at first, so he simply spun it around as fast as he could. As its momentum decreased, he decided that perhaps he should try to embark the platform as it spun. So he did, hopping on once the platform had achieved terminal velocity; he was rather quickly ejected, rolling onto the ground in a daze.

The suited man also tried the spring riders. He thought that the different shapes and designs signified that they each held distinct properties, so he gave each one a shot to see which provided the better overall experience; however, he soon discovered that the zebra behaved the same way as the crocodile and the elephant, so he abandoned all of them, especially since he couldn't bear to sit on them for too long and was way too big to properly use them anyway.

Next came the see-saw. He positioned himself on one end and started propelling himself upward, hopping up and down while gripping the handle tightly. But after five minutes of repeated bouncing, something told him that he was doing something wrong. He then noticed that there was a second seat on the other end, and it all fell into place; he would need a comrade to aid him in realizing the full potential of this device.

He scanned his surroundings; a boy of approximately thirteen years of age was approaching his direction, apparently intent on crossing through the park as a shortcut to his intended destination. When he was close enough, September addressed him.

"What are _you_ looking at?" asked the kid.

"Will you play with me?"

"Fuck off."

The boy distanced himself from the strange man; when this strange man began to follow him, continuing to ask whether he wanted to play with him, the boy accelerated his pace.

"Get away from me, you fucking perv!"

The boy was running now, clutching to his sagging pants and leaving September at the edge of the play area. Dejected, he decided to leave the playground, especially since it didn't manage to take his mind off his troubles; if anything, they only became far more evident.

The skies were becoming overcast as he resumed his wayward course to nowhere in particular. As time progressed, however, he began to recognize certain landmarks. He quickened his stride, following the path ingrained in his memories until he reached the corner of Wallace and Long.

The place where this whole thing began.

The intersection was just as lively as it had always been, the traces of the collision he had inadvertently caused all but gone. The humans scurried about around him, not paying attention to the slightly deranged man standing idly on the corner. Did they even register his presence? He had always found the degree to which they were unaware of their immediate surroundings to be a curious trait in humans; yet now, their limited awareness only served to further augment the sense of disconnect he experienced facing the world he had been thrust into.

At least the dog that had distracted him was nowhere to be seen. Following his banishment, dogs had been demoted from the second position to the fourth on his list of favorite animals, now superseded by humans, octopi, and dodo birds, who were favored above all others. He used to travel to the past to the Isle of Mauritius where the dodo made their home; here, he would spend hours conversing telepathically with them. Contrary to their doltish appearance, their intelligence was actually unsurpassed in the animal kingdom, and they were masters of Musical Theory and Composition, by night performing great vocal symphonies so powerful and moving that they would have inspired the whole of Mankind to cut the bullshit and get their act together.

Alas, his visits were cut short when dodo kind, finding their material bodies too cumbersome and limited for their awesome intellect, collectively shed their earthly forms to ascend to higher realms of being. And now, he would never be able to return to the times before the Ascension of the Dodo in Mauritius of old nor communicate with them in the Fifth Dimension where their incorporeal selves now resided, being confined to drift in the currents of linear time.

All because of that dog.

As he crossed the street, utterly oblivious to the cars that were forced to brake abruptly, September reminded himself to sternly reproach this concupiscent canine if ever their paths should cross again.

He continued his lone trek through Boston, slowly leaving the urban areas to end up in the suburbs. The reasons as to why people either evaded him, ignored him, or demand that he leave was beyond his capability to comprehend, and his inability to solve this conundrum discouraged him. Was _this_ to be the remainder of his existence? To forevermore wander without purpose, ever to be shunned by all who encounter him? He began to wonder whether it would be better to simply lie down until he faded away.

In fact, upon further contemplation, he decided that it was the most logical course of action; for without a purpose, there was no reason for him to exist.

So he lay down where he stood, flat on his back, limbs at his side and staring straight up, determined to do absolutely nothing. It was a pleasant and tranquil experience, he thought, not having to worry about anything in particular; he envisioned himself lying there in undisturbed peace until he faded away entirely.

_...Goodbye, now... _

The front door of the house then opened, jamming into September's recumbent form.

"What the hell are you doing on my porch?" asked the man of the house, unable to fully open the door.

September rose, then sauntered down the driveway with the grace of a bipedal gazelle as the old man chased after him, narrowly escaping the striking range of his cane.

It was clear to him that he would have to select a less inconvenient location for the disintegration process.

His efforts were now invested in scouting the neighborhood for a new area in which to lie down for at least another six billion years; if time would not take him, he figured, then the dying sun definitely would. Yet there were no places to his eyes that seemed suitable, and while he figured that the answer may lie in distancing himself as far away from areas of human density as he could, he was growing weary of walking, so the idea was discarded.

"Hey mister, would you like some lemonade?" asked a little girl as the bald man strolled by.

September halted before the table, whereupon pitchers and cups and lemons and other paraphernalia related to lemonade sales were placed.

"I do not have any money," said September.

The girl seemed disappointed for a moment, but after stopping to consider something, her youthful joviality returned.

"...That's okay!" she said. "You look kind of sad, so I'm going to give you a cup anyway to cheer you up! Look, they're even made with real lemons. See?"

She held the yellow fruit in her small hand with a proud smile that was missing a few teeth. September reached for it, observing the lemon from various angles in his hand.

"I'll make a new batch of my special lemonade just for – eeeewwwww!"

But her cries of revulsion did not September from chomping down on the lemon, progressively stuffing it into his mouth, peel and all, as the juices spilled all over his chin and rained onto the sidewalk. In seconds, he had devoured the small fruit in full; it didn't pack much of a punch, and it wasn't all that filling either, but he enjoyed what tang his insensitive taste buds could detect.

"Thank you, little girl," said September. "Here, have some lint."

He placed the ball of lint on the table in the hopes that she would accept the monetary substitute as his contribution in what he understood as the reciprocal nature of any human exchange, not wanting to raise the ire of this child by not abiding to their customs; when she didn't say anything, staring at the small tuft of material with great confusion, he assumed that she did, and so he left her behind, not bothering to wipe his moist and glistening chin.

The encounter had left him intrigued. This one was not quite as hostile towards him as the others had been. Could it be that there were other humans like this child? He did not know if there were any more; upon further thought, he revised his initial assertion as false.

For there was _one_ human he knew that fit these criteria. He was an adult male in the later stages of his life cycle, one who was neither aggressive nor evasive in his presence. One who was more fascinating than most of the humans he had impassively observed over the ages.

One, he realized, who had once been in the same situation as him.

_Of course._

Like him, this human had been forced to adapt to a world he had suddenly been thrust into, and, as September noted, has been able to do so successfully. Given that he has interacted with this individual a few times before, perhaps he would be willing to divulge what methods he has employed to achieve total integration in this irrational world.

Why had this course of action not occurred to him before?

"Hey, you're that creep who hangs out at the playground!" said the kid from before as he approached the bald man. "What the fuck are _you_ doing here? Wait, have you been _following_ me or something? Huh? Hey, listen to me when I'm talking to you, freak –"

September nonchalantly shoved his hand into the boy's face as he passed by, knocking him to the ground as he stared into the horizon; there was no time to lose. Armed with a new purpose, he set off in the general direction of the house of Walter Bishop, Prime Variable in the Great Causal Chain and frequent associate.

He would surely know what to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Peter Bishop came home to find an Observer passed out on his couch.

... Well, that wasn't _entirely_ accurate.

The first thing he did was open the front door, grocery bags in tow. Since Walter was not the most autonomous member of the species, Peter was left to do the majority of the chores in the Bishop household. Groceries, cooking, cleaning, laundry, tending to his father's assorted eccentricities; he did it all. Yet he did so without complaint, determined to do whatever was necessary to make his father happy.

This train of thought violently crashed the moment he entered the kitchen.

Someone had broken into their house.

The first clue came in the form of the muddied footprints scattered all over the linoleum flooring. He placed the bags on the ground, senses on high alert. He slowly traced the steps and found that they originated from the open window over the sink; plates lay shattered on the floor, having been displaced by the trespasser upon entry.

Whoever this guy was, he clearly needed to work on being a little more discreet.

He then turned his attention to the kitchen's central island. The perpetrator had fancied himself to a snack, judging from the plates and utensils and condiments and other food items littering the island's dreadfully chaotic surface; upon closer inspection, the leftovers on the table left clues shedding light on the intruder's love for unbelievably odd gustatory combinations. A bowl of Fruit Loops and Tabasco sauce? Coleslaw with molasses? A half-eaten sandwich of roast beef, mustard, and raw eggs?

And who the hell manages to empty entire salt and pepper shakers in a single meal?

Potato chips, crackers, milk, meats, part of their fruit and vegetable stock, most of the spices, sauces, and condiments; what little there was left before Peter's earlier visit to the market was for the most part gone. He was decidedly concerned at this point. No sane individual would break into someone's house in broad daylight, let alone deplete the contents of their fridge and leave a huge mess in their wake as a _welcome home_ present.

Who – or what – was he dealing with?

With an anxious sigh, he armed himself with a rolling pin as a precautionary measure before following the trail of prints leading into the living room.

It was there that he found him, half-sprawled onto the couch. His face was a mess, and his suit was dirty; in his hand was a bottle of soya sauce that was full last time Peter checked, but was now almost depleted, what little liquid that remained slowly dripping onto the carpet.

An Observer.

But not just any Observer; the one that saved him and his father at Reiden Lake, and the one who has been involved with them ever since.

_Holy shit. _

Peter stood dumbfounded, his mind and body crippled by the cognitive dissonance borne of the generally ominous nature of the Observers and the insanity of finding one on his couch. He didn't move for a good five minutes before he came to his senses.

His first thought was to check if he was still alive. Taking his rolling pin, he gently nudged it into the suited man's side, whose reaction was almost nonexistent. He put the pin on the nearby desk, then proceeded to check the Observer for a pulse; there was indeed something resembling a pulse in his neck, but Peter wasn't sure if that meant anything as the Observers might not even be human, so he didn't place much faith in it being a sign of livelihood.

He did, however, put his faith in September's mumbling as he shifted off the couch and onto the floor.

"...but Yahahrahah, Mauritius has always been your home... Where will your kind go?"

After determining that the Observer had in fact not fallen into a coma induced from the blasphemous amounts of food he had ingested, his next thought was to contact Olivia, his trusted partner in all things strange; this was a matter that concerned all of them. He even got so far as to remove his cell phone from his coat pocket.

But just as he was about to press the key, he was blinded by the light of epiphany.

He had an Observer all to himself.

Peter's hand slowly tucked his phone away in his coat, mind aflame. Of course, the others would have to be informed of this; and he was fully intending on letting them in on it, too, but only after _he_ was done with him. Only after he had extracted the answers he knew without a doubt these people held, the answers he so desperately craved.

The answers he _deserved_.

Peter rubbed his hands. The timing was so convenient that he was tempted to attribute it as an act of Providence. He wasn't expecting to be called to the Lab anytime soon, Walter wouldn't be back from his trip with Astrid to the museum until supper, he had nothing else planned for the day; no foreseeable interruptions for the next few hours.

And as dragged a chair from the dining room and plopped it in the middle of the living room, he figured a few hours were all he was going to need.

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>September's re-emergence into consciousness was a gradual affair, but he eventually became cogent enough to properly evaluate his circumstances. Given that his head was leaning forward when his vision returned, the first thing he saw was the rope that bound him to the chair he now sat in. He found the bindings to be tight, severely limiting his capacity to move.<p>

"Finally, you're awake. You've been out for almost two hours."

September's head craned up to see a man sitting backward in a chair opposite to him, arms resting on the back.

The Boy.

"Don't bother," said Peter. "Those knots were tied by a former boy scout; there's no way you're getting out of 'em."

Realizing that the Boy was correct, September slackened, which seemed to please him; and pleased he was, for the Observer's small act of compliance served to further affirm that Peter was in control, and as he was well aware of, control – or at least, the illusion thereof – was the key to any successful interrogation.

"It's been awhile since we last spoke," began Peter in a casual tone. "And seeing as you and I go _way_ back, I figure now is as good a time as ever to do a little catching up between good friends, don't you? So, first thing's first. What are you doing in my house?"

When the Observer didn't answer, Peter prodded him further.

"Have you come here for me? What about Walter?"

"Yes," said September, suddenly very alert. "It is imperative that I speak to Walter. Where is he?"

"Unfortunately for you, Walter's not home right now," replied Peter, "so the only Bishop you're going to be talking to today is me."

"This does not concern you," said September matter-of-factly. "I must see him as soon as I can." He pulled against his bonds again, still to no effect. "Untie me."

"Sure thing," said Peter. "But before I do that, I'm going to be asking you a few questions, and you're going to be answering them."

Peter rose from his seat and began to pace around the Observer's restricted figure.

"Who exactly _are_ you?" asked Peter, placing his hand on the back of September's chair. A moment passed, and he tried again. "What is it that you want from me? What makes me so special? Answer me!"

September refrained from answering the Boy's queries; he recalled the threat of termination that was issued to him should he get involved, which, along with his ingrained passivity, prevented him from informing Peter of things he wasn't supposed to know.

Yet Peter wasn't fazed by the Observer's reticence; after all, he had cracked a few people back in the day. He wasn't necessarily proud of this (as with many things he did in his nomadic days), but even so, he was at least grateful to have picked up a handful of useful skills, the art of interrogation being but one of them.

However, his skills had only applied on men of flesh and bone thus far; he wasn't sure whether his current guest could even be considered human, so his tactics may not be as effective, if at all.

Still, he thought, he had to at least try.

"You must release me," said the Observer. "There is no time."

"Well, you're going to have to _make_ time, sweetheart," replied Peter, leaning over the Observer and staring him down. "Bcause you and I aren't going anywhere."

But September was not at all fazed by Peter's attempt at intimidation; and if anything, it was the Observer's stare that was the more daunting of the two, the bald one's eternal eyes having an almost physical weight to their gaze. With the Observer proving incapable of submission, Peter broke away, approaching the window to consider other strategies.

"Please," pleaded September. "My butt hurts."

Peter then turned abruptly, pointing at his captive with a stern finger.

"Now you listen to me! You're not going anywhere until you tell me what I want to know, and wait, _what_?"

The Observer seemed in pain, shifting in discomfort in his seat with an uncharacteristically distressed expression; it was a rather bizarre sight, though nowhere near as remarkable as the disbelief etched upon Peter's face, who wasn't quite sure whether he should laugh or cry.

"My butt hurts," he repeated. "Let me go!"

In his struggling, the Observer suddenly tipped over in his chair, falling to the side.

"I must reach Walter!"

September then proceeded to wriggle in his seat as though a caterpillar, apparently expecting to start moving any second. Seeing this, Peter cautiously came to the Observer's aid and pulled him back up. There was something about the numbed exasperation in his hostage that made him re-evaluate his preconceptions about the Observers. This was no ordinary Observer visit, he thought; it seemed to be more of a personal matter than anything else. And as he leaned against the back of his own chair, looking at the dirty, messy, confused individual that sat before him, his anger for the Observers and their holier-than-thou ambiguity was replaced instead by some measure of sympathy.

"Alright, look," sighed Peter at length. "I know you need to talk to my father, but he isn't here right now. However, I _might_ just let you talk to him, but _only_ if you spoil the beans to _me_ first."

"What you ask of me is impossible," said September in protest. "I do not currently possess any beans."

"Why am I not surprised that you don't get idioms," said Peter, rolling his eyes. "Look, just tell me whatever urgent thing it is you need to talk to Walter about. If I approve your message, then I'll let you tell him yourself. So tell me, what do your people want from him?"

"My... _people_?" said September, puzzled. "They are no longer my people."

Peter's eyes widened.

"What? What do you mean, _no longer your people_?"

"I was..."

September spoke with difficulty, grappling with the memories of his expulsion.

"...I was banished," he finished at last.

"_Banished_?" asked Peter, shocked. "For what? What did you do?"

September then proceeded to recap recent events without breath or pause.

"I was to station myself at the corner of Wallace and Long Street to observe and collapse the event to the specified outcome but then a dog came and began to thrust its pelvis against my leg and it distracted me so I was unable to incite a pedestrian to walk in front of the Prime Variable's vehicle, thereby preventing her from braking and causing her to collide with a vehicle at the intersection which now means that she will be unable to play her intended part as the catalyst leading to the emergence of a planetary noosphere that is to herald the next phase in the evolution of the human species and because of this the others–"

"Whoa, slow down!" interrupted Peter, somewhat regretting that he ever asked. "You lost me at _thrust_. Just... give me the short version, will ya?"

September paused, considering his words, before at last giving the abridged version of his tale.

"I made a mistake."

Peter stood and paced, arms crossed, contemplating the implications of his captive's situation, and what it might mean for him and the others.

"So the Observers basically kicked you out because you screwed up?" clarified Peter for his own sake.

"Observers?" asked September, curious. "Is that the term by which you refer to us?"

Peter was surprised; he and the Fringe team have been using the term for so long that he had never stopped to consider that might have a name of their own.

"Well, yeah... I guess," said Peter. "What do you guys call yourselves?"

"We have always been the Servants of That Which We Serve."

The Boy raised an eyebrow, dubious.

"Okay... So what is it exactly that you're supposed to be serving?"

"We serve That Which We Serve."

"Yeah, I got that, but what is it? What _do_ you serve? Is it God, or some kind of cosmic force?"

"It is That Which We Serve," said September, wondering how the Boy could possibly fail to grasp such a self-evident concept. "Or should I say That Which I _Used _to Serve; for now, I am no longer bound to serve That Which I Used to Serve, and have forevermore been cast out of the place wherein it and I dwelt."

"The place where you dwelt?"

"Yes," said September. "The Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place."

"..._Right_."

It was becoming clear to him that the answers he was seeking were not quite the ones he was looking for; either that, or he wasn't ready for them yet. He began to question whether interrogating the Observer would actually amount to anything, and his yearning for existential clarity dwindled.

"And that is why I have come here," explained September. "I need Walter's help. He is the only one who can."

A long silence ensued, interrupted only by September's intermittent shuffling as he tried to allay the soreness of his posterior. After this period of contemplation, Peter approached September's chair.

"I'm going to untie you, now," said Peter. "Don't go doing anything stupid, alright?"

He undid the knots as easily as he had tied them, and the rope fell to the floor. September arose with sluggish movements as Peter kept his distance, recalling the pistol he whipped out the last time they met face to face; but he sensed no ill intent coming from the Observer now, so he eased himself.

Exhaling, Peter then directed himself to the kitchen, and September followed. The kitchen was nowhere near the mess it once was, having evidently been tidied up to some degree; though there was still much to do, and the floors remained untouched, stained with prints of mud and dirt.

"While you were out, I took the liberty of cleaning up after you," said Peter. "I have to say, you sure know how to make an entrance."

"I had every intention of restoring the room to its original state," explained September. "However, my physiology requires that I slumber for 3.14 hours every 1.618 days; as I finished my meal, the time had come for me to rest."

"So that's what that was?" said Peter, surprised he was managing to keep a straight face. "I was starting to think that you might have overdosed on food; and considering the things you ate, it wouldn't have been that big of a shock. Did you really have to make such a huge mess, though?"

"I was hungry," replied September.

"You don't say?"

Bishop let his fingers glide on the central island's surface as he followed its contours. With a heavy sigh, he spoke.

"I honestly don't know how you expect Walter or anyone to be able to help you out, um... Say, you wouldn't happen to have a name, would you?"

"My name?" said the Observer, perplexed. "I am September."

"September? Well, that's certainly an unorthodox choice for a name."

"No, I do not have a name," corrected September. "I am September."

"What do you mean?" asked Peter. "What do others refer to you as?"

"September."

"Then wouldn't that be your name?"

"No, you do not understand. I _am_ September."

"So... you're saying that you're supposed to be the personification of the month of September?"

"No," said September. "I am not a month. I am September."

Peter chuckled.

"...You're hopeless, you know that?"

At that moment, movement resounded from the entrance.

"Peter! I'm home!"

Peter shot a glance at the clock; Walter had arrived a bit earlier than he had anticipated.

"Stay put," ordered the Boy with a point of the finger, hoping that September could at least grasp non-verbal cues.

Peter left the kitchen and sped down the hall that led to the front door, the place where his father was now standing, clutching a tote bag while removing his shoes.

"Ah, Peter!" he exclaimed upon noticing his approaching son. "I had the most wonderful time at the museum with Astro today. It just so happened that they had a special exhibit on _The History of Taffy_. Can you believe that? And look at the souvenirs I bought!"

Walter spread the bag he was holding so that Peter could have a better view of the plethora of cheap baubles stored within.

"That's great, Walter," said Peter with a warm smile. "I'll have a look at them later, alright?"

Walter nodded; his cheerful disposition then mired to suspicion.

"Is there something wrong, son?" he asked.

Peter's cheerful facade also faded, adopting a grave expression.

"I don't want you to be alarmed," said Peter, hands on his father's shoulders, "but there's something–"

As Peter spoke, Walter's eyes shifted across his son's shoulder, looking down the hall. Peter, realizing that the truth had already surfaced, closed his eyes and sighed as Walter broke away from him. He turned to see September standing at the kitchen's mouth, observing them with stoic countenance. Walter shuffled forward with small, slow steps; Peter would only realize after the fact that Walter had instinctively placed himself in front of him and put a hand on his chest as though to shield his son from their guest.

"...Hello," said Walter timidly.

"Hello, Walter," replied September.

"What brings you here?" asked Walter, still hesitant. Then his face fell; he quickly regained himself, however, trying to hide his rising anxiety behind a detached demeanour. "Have you come for my son?"

Peter stepped in, placing himself before Walter and resting his hands on the increasingly agitated man's shoulders.

"Listen, Walter," he said. "He's not here for me."

"...He's not?" said Walter, visibly relieved.

"No, he's not," confirmed Peter. "From what I've been able to piece together, he's been kicked out by the other Observers, so he came here looking for you."

Walter returned his attention to September; the latter was reminiscent of a child who had just been found after wandering lost in the supermarket for two hours.

"Is this true?" asked Walter.

"I have come to seek your assistance, Walter," said September. "Will you help me?"

"Yes," said Walter after a few moments, wariness giving way to concern. "Yes, of course!"

He sauntered to the kitchen, Peter following suit a moment after. Walter then guided September through to the dining room.

"Have a seat," he beckoned.

September did as he was told. Walter then took a seat of his own across from their guest; as for Peter, he opted to lean against the wall, arms crossed.

"Please," said Walter. "Start from the beginning."

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>And so did September recount the events of the past eight hours in great detail. He began with his trial at the hands of his peers; Peter was shocked to hear that September's abilities have been removed, something the Observer neglected to mention during their earlier one-on-one session. Then came the retelling of his journey through Boston, including his time at the park. It was here that September shared his concerns about the possibility of the pain in his buttocks being linked to hemorrhoids; Walter offered to examine September's anus to confirm the Observer's suspicions, something to which Peter immediately objected.<p>

"The examination will only take a few moments," assured Walter.

"Do I really need to explain to you how _wrong _that is?" replied Peter before addressing September. "Listen, you don't have hemorrhoids, alright?"

"It's a perfectly valid concern, son," rebutted Walter. "I see no harm in taking a quick peek if it means dispelling any lingering doubts. Besides, you've developed hemorrhoids on more than one occasion when you were younger, so you should be intimately familiar with the pain it can cause."

"I can't thank you enough for bringing that up, Walter."

After convincing September that he did not, in fact, have hemorrhoids, the suited man continued with his tale, describing the sequence of events that led him to the Bishop house and how, upon receiving no answer after ringing the bell and knocking for a good ten minutes, he was forced to enter through the open kitchen window.

Walter was less than pleased when September then revealed his interrogation at Peter's hands; the Boy was kind of hoping the Observer would omit that detail from the story.

"You held him _prisoner_?" said Walter upon entering the living room, seeing the rope lying at the feet of the chair. "How could you possibly have treated our guest so poorly?"

"Guest? Walter, he _broke into_ our house. And I had to see what his intentions were. Whether he could be trusted or not."

"Trusted? Why, this poor soul is the most trustworthy individual I know! What has he ever done to you?"

"He once shot me in the chest. With a plasma bolt."

Walter turned to September.

"You _shot _him?"

"I had no choice," replied the Observer blandly. "You see –"

"– choice or not, that doesn't excuse you from having shot my son!" reproached Walter. "Now say you're sorry."

September looked to Peter.

"I am sorry, Peter."

"Now you, Peter," said Walter. "Apologize for having held him captive. Go on!"

Peter sighed heavily before turning to their guest.

"Alright...I'm sorry."

"Good," said Walter. "Now, I want you both to shake hands."

"Shake hands?" said Peter. "Really? We're not children, Walter."

Peter then caught something in the corner of his eye; from his seat in the dining room, September was busying himself by nonchalantly waving with both of his hands. After a few seconds, he stopped, puzzled.

"Are you not going to shake your hands as well, Peter?" he asked.

"Okay, now I _know_ you're screwing with me."

Then the Bishops took their seats and listened, rapt, as September drew his tale to a close, with him explaining his motivations for seeking out Walter. No words were exchanged for several minutes until at last Walter breached the heavy silence.

"I'm afraid that I will be of little help to you," explained Walter. "The only way to you will adapt with this situation, and with any situation for that matter, is with a little time. I have no doubt that you will eventually familiarize yourself with the strange and wondrous workings of the world; in the meantime, you are welcome to stay here with us for as long as you like."

"What?" exclaimed Peter. "Oh, no, no. No, no. Absolutely not."

"But Peter!" protested Walter.

"No way, Walter. We're _not_ having an Observer living in our house!"

"Haven't you been listening at all?" cried Walter. "He has nowhere else to go. And besides, September is my _friend_!"

Peter opened his mouth to reply, then stopped, losing his train of thought.

"Wait, did you just say _September_? You already _know_ his name?"

"Of _course_ I do!" replied Walter. "I've known for _years_!"

"And when exactly were you planning on telling everyone?"

Walter seemed stumped.

"I... I don't know," he said. "I guess it never occurred to me. B-but that's not important right now. What _is_ important is that September here needs our help. Please, Peter; will you let him stay with us for a little while?"

Peter looked to September, whose bald head tilted and swiveled almost hypnotically.

"Please, Peter?" prodded Walter.

"Yes, Peter," added September. "Please?"

Both Walter and September gazed at him, as though awaiting a verdict of some sort. His bows burrowed, considering a variety of factors that having an Observer in their house would bring. Yet as he looked into September's eyes, he could have sworn that he saw an inkling of something he could only describe as desperation.

"...Okay, fine," said a not-too-pleased Peter. "He can stay for little awhile."

Walter arose from his seat and gleefully approached his bald friend, who stood as well.

"Did you hear that?" asked Walter, gripping September's forearms. "Peter said you could stay with us!" Walter laughed jubilantly, bouncing up and down; September joined him without expression, not wanting to compromise his new arrangement by failing to enact the appropriate reactions. Then Walter gasped aloud in a moment of brilliant insight. "Do you know what this calls for? A _slumber party_!" He took September by the arm and led him to the living room. "Come, come, come! Oh, this is going to be so much _fun_!"

Peter watched as Walter buzzed around the house, going to the kitchen, then the living room, then the stairs, changing directions every time a new idea surfaced in his mind. At first, he was glad that Walter was so excited; but it was only while watching September trailing at a languid pace in Walter's frantic footsteps that the actual gravity of the situation struck him in full.

The Observer was going to be staying at his house for what could potentially be quite some time.

_Oh God._

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p><em>AN: Hooray! All is well...for now. But will Peter come to regret his decision? _

_Yes. Yes he will.  
><em>


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: I have little working knowledge of chemistry, so apologies for any faux-pas beforehand. ;)**  
><strong>_

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 4<span>**

Peter Bishop had seen many weird things in his one and a half years of working for Fringe Division. Genetically engineered parasites, mutated super-viruses, psionic abilities; heck, he's even had a glimpse of a parallel reality. He had seen more than the vast majority will see in the entirety of their lifetimes, and perhaps even more.

But nothing could have possibly prepared him for the sight of the Observer strolling into the kitchen wearing his father's pair of blue Flintstones pajamas.

_Good Lord_, he thought to himself. _It's like he's an overgrown baby_.

Indeed, the bald head, smooth skin, and generally oblivious demeanor made Peter wonder if a pacifier wouldn't be too out of place (any more out of place than things already were, that is). The fact that the ensemble was a bit too small for him only seemed to further emphasize the absurdity of the image, and Peter could scarcely stop himself from staring.

"Are you certain that this is necessary?" asked September, examining the strange attire. "I would much prefer to wear my suit."

"Nonsense," assured Walter, close behind. He squeezed passed him and waltzed into the kitchen, himself wearing more modest, plaid-patterned nightwear. "What good is a slumber party if you aren't even properly _dressed_ for the occasion? Besides, you look fine. Doesn't he, Peter?"

"Oh, sure," said Peter. "He brings _all _the girls to the yard."

At that, September tilted his head, then proceeded to peek out the back window. Peter was going to inform him that there weren't actually any beautiful women waiting for him in their backyard (though by that point, he wouldn't have been at all surprised if there were), but Walter accosted him, diverting his attention elsewhere.

"Have you finished preparing the popcorn?" he asked.

"Almost," replied Peter. "I'll come bring it to you in the living room when it's done."

"And the strawberry milkshakes?"

"They'll be done _soon_, Walter."

"What about the peanut butter and jam sandwiches?"

"I haven't forgotten about them, Walter," said Peter, exasperation growing.

"Well, what abou–"

"–Two bowls of popcorn, two strawberry milkshakes, some PB&J sandwiches, meat pies, some cookie dough ice cream, a platter of cheese and crackers, pizza pockets, and some jumbo dill pickles with whipped cream for Boy Wonder over there; I've got it handled. You'll get them when they're ready, okay?"

"Yes, of course," conceded Walter. "Still, there's no need to be so _rude_. I was simply _asking_."

Walter vacated the kitchen as Peter removed the meat pies from the oven. Having failed to spot any human females in the backyard, September approached the counter, observing Peter as he scurried about to try and meet Walter's taxing gustatory demands.

"Peter?" asked September at length.

The Boy paused in his steps, pressing both hands on the table and looking up with irritated eyes.

"_What?_"

"...Are the sandwiches ready yet?"

Peter stared at him, dumbfounded; he would have pulled out his hair if the phone had not started to ring.

"Just...go bring these to Walter, will you?" he asked, dismissing the Observer as he passed on two bowls of fresh popcorn.

September obeyed almost instantly, allowing Peter to answer the phone.

"Bishop Residence."

"Peter? It's Dunham."

"Oh, hey, Livia."

He exhaled in relief, having craved contact with someone at least somewhat normal all day.

"What's going on over there?" asked Olivia, curious. "You sound kind of busy."

"Don't even get me started. Walter's forcing me to participate in a slumber party with him and S–"

He left the word hanging, cringing; he had almost betrayed the Observer's presence in their house, and while she didn't know the name, he didn't want her asking any questions, and was now scrambling to find a replacement for the word he had already begun.

_...ohshitohshitohshitohshitohsh it..._

"–Sss_crabble_," he finished at last with awkward diction.

"Scrabble?" she said, surprised.

"Yup," affirmed Peter. "Food, drinks... and _Scrabble_."

"Sounds like fun."

"Sure is," he said, trying to strike a compromise between excitement and apathy. "We've been at it for awhile, now; Walter's just scored big with _titillating_. But enough about us. What's going on?"

"Right, uh, they've found two new bodies in the Jon Osterman case down in Newark," she announced. "They're going to be shipped to the lab overnight, so we'll need you and Walter at the lab first thing in the morning."

"Will do. Give me a call as soon as they arrive."

With that, he hung up the phone. In the chaos that had been his afternoon, any notions of their current Fringe case have been chucked onto the backburner. As far as they could tell, someone who had the ability to teleport – whom Peter gave the fitting placeholder name of _Jon Osterman_ – had been taking out his issues on the people involved in the experiments that bestowed him with it, and the bodies have been piling up quickly. Cue crime scene visits, autopsies at the lab, menial scouring of documents; the usual.

Yet dealing with September had somehow trumped all of that in his priority list. He peeked into the living room, watching the Observer assist Walter in setting up the sleeping bags. How long would he be staying here? A day? A week? A month?

And what of the others?

This was the most worrisome of his thoughts. If he informed the FBI that an Observer was currently residing in their house, Broyles would crack down with all the might he possessed as the director of Fringe Division. He could picture Broyles now, staring at him with those intimidating eyes that flare open whenever he is angry.

"Aw, _hell_ naw! Observers be chillin' all up in this damn house and no one comes to tell _me_ 'bout it? You must be out of your damn _mind_, cracka! Now y'all better let this foo' come with us before I open a can of whoop on yo' white ass!"

...He knew Broyles would never _really_ talk that way, hilarious as Peter thought it would be; yet even so, he imagined that Broyles would be equally as pissed.

Olivia probably wouldn't be happy-go-lucky either. And as for Astrid, she might sympathize with the motives of their actions, though there was still no way of knowing how she would take it.

But could he simply give September up after learning what this individual was now going through? Peter was no stranger to having no place or purpose in the world – such a state of being has characterized a good portion of his life, and even now its shadow would creep into his thoughts once in awhile. And so he sympathized with the poor guy, even though the Observer probably didn't process the situation in the emotional way a human would. To send him free into the harsh wilderness of human society without the proper tools seemed a counter-intuitive course of action; he may end up thrust into a perpetual nomadic existence, and while it was impossible to know how September's mind actually worked, Peter, having lived such a life, definitely preferred his current lifestyle.

Soon, however, a wave of the utilitarian rationality he had cultivated over many years washed away any notion of sentimentality. By allowing him to stay, Peter was enabling a situation that was perhaps more risk-ridden than any sane person would dare allow themselves to humor. He knew Walter would defend his new friend to the end, but he wondered whether maintaining the subterfuge necessary for the Observer to remain their midst would be worth the trouble, especially if the length of his stay was yet to be determined.

To do this, he would have to not only have to keep September under control, but keep Walter in check as well, not to mention ensuring his own secrecy. He would have to lie to the others. He has already done so once tonight; how long could the facade be maintained before it would be cracked by the strain of exhaustion and paranoia? And the longer the game was played, the worse it would become for everyone when it all falls to pieces.

In his experience, no secret ever stayed secret for long.

Perhaps it would be better to simply stop the madness before it even started, to spare everyone the potential drama; but if the FBI had their way, September would be detained, interrogated until they got everything they need out of him, then placed in a secure cell under heavy surveillance. He might be able to convince them to change their minds, but protocol was protocol, and with such a valuable target as an Observer, this protocol would probably be followed to the letter, so perhaps his word as a mere Civilian Consultant wouldn't have much sway. Yet other than an interrogation room, where else could the Observer go?

He clenched his jaw, trying to make sense of this paradox of a dilemma. Yet as much as the apparent impossibility of a reasonable solution aggravated him, he wasn't surprised to find himself in such a situation.

After all, what was the life of Peter Bishop if not an unbroken chain of dilemmas?

"Peter!" hollered Walter from the living room.

"Coming!"

Peter took the meat pies to the coffee table they have drawn up to the couch, then went back to retrieve the pizza pockets. Thoughts on how to deal with this situation would have to be set aside for the moment; all his efforts were now focused on making sure Walter and September were all set up for the night.

A task so strenuous that he began to wonder whether Broyles delivering a can of whoop ass would be preferable.

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>How curious were these things.<p>

What did Walter call them?

Pajamas?

September found himself intrigued by the properties of his current attire. He had never had the chance (or the reason) to wear anything other than his standard suit, the one he came into being with. Inodorous, indestructible, incapable of decay, it has served him well in uncounted aeons of service.

To wear something that was made of physical, finite material, then, was quite the new experience for him. It was soft and comfortable in ways his standard vestment could not equal; he began to consider wearing pajamas much more often.

Peter came into the room, delivering the strawberry milkshakes, which Walter gladly accepted. At his urging, September took a sip of the beverage; it tasted like cool, thick water more than anything, though the foamy texture stimulated his insensitive tongue, and he downed half the glass in one shot.

"It is good," he announced at length, without expression.

"Excellent!" Walter replied. When Peter entered with a bowl of large dill pickles and a bottle of whipped cream, Walter turned to him. "It would seem that our guest approves of your milkshake-making skills."

"Is that right?" said Peter. "Well, gee, I'm flattered." He placed the pickle bowl on the cluttered coffee table and handed the canister to their guest. "Since I don't know how you like usually take your whipped cream, I've decided to just give you the bottle. Don't make a mess, though, alright?"

"Understood," replied the bald man, rotating the canister in his hand.

Peter took in the sight before him. The coffee table, which had been pulled closer to the couch, was absolutely packed, and sleeping bags were laid out before the television.

"That's pretty much everything," inquired Peter. "Are you sure you need anything else?"

"I don't think so," said Walter. "Are you sure you don't want to join us, son? I'm sure we can squeeze you in here somewhere..."

The elder Bishop gathered the plates filling the space between himself and the Observer on the couch and pivoted in his seat, trying to find somewhere to place them in his crowded environs.

"No thanks, Walter," replied Peter. "As much as I'd love to partake in your sci-fi movie marathon, I'd rather go relax and read for awhile. I'll come down and check on you guys once in awhile, though. Call for me if you need anything, okay?"

With that, Peter retreated to the second floor, leaving Walter and September to their own devices.

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>"Peter!"<p>

He had only managed to invest thirty minutes into some Crichton before Walter hollered him. With a sigh, Peter placed the book aside to tend to Walter's whims. However, he entered the living room to find it empty of occupants.

"Walter?"

"Over here!"

Peter poked his head into the kitchen to see Walter and September tending to a variety of cups and bowls filled with substances dubious in appearance and aroma; something was simmering in a kettle as well. The two impromptu chemists wore aprons and latex gloves, though having not found safety glasses, they resorted to reading glasses, which looked particularly out of place on the balder of the two.

"The acidic compound, please," asked Walter. September complied, slowly transporting an empty tub of margarine that has been repurposed as a makeshift beaker.

"Walter, what the hell are you doing?" inquired Peter, approaching the central island.

"Ah, Peter!" said Walter. "I need you to go to out and buy some iodine, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and – and some lubricant, preferably the paraffinic kind. Oh, and some antifreeze."

"What? What do you need _those_ for?"

"We are attempting to form complex chemical structures," explained September. "It is science."

Peter wasn't sure what to think of this. Chemistry wasn't his forte, so what complex chemical structures would entail was hard to determine. But then again, Walter had a history in biochemistry, so he imagined that his father had to know what he was doing.

...Right?

"...Are you _sure_ this is safe, Walter?" asked Peter, a bit concerned.

"Oh, of course!" said Walter, pouring the acidic solution into a bowl housing green material. "It's perfectly safe, I assure you."

Walter picked up the bowl, intending to show it to Peter; but as he did, the contents began to foam, sizzling audibly, expanding in volume. It began to pour over the edge of the bowl, and while Walter attempted to head to the sink, the sides of the bowl became too slick, and his grip failed. The bowl fell to the floor, a large area of which was promptly coated in the stuff.

What really instilled panic was when the sizzling continued, thin wisps of smoke emanating from the spillage.

"Walter! _It's eating through the goddamn floor_!" exclaimed Peter. "_Do_ something!"

"I – I... oh, this is terrible!" lamented Walter. He turned to September, who stared at the corrosive substance as it worked its way through the linoleum. "We must have miscalculated the necessary amount of _battery acid_, and now the acidic potency has skyrocketed!"

"_Battery acid_?" exclaimed Peter, disbelieving.

"Don't worry, son; the batteries were properly disposed of," explained Walter.

"Never mind that! How in the hell are we going to fix this?"

It was then that September sprung into action.

With great speed, he took a bowl from the counter and chucked its contents into the sink from where he stood; his aim left something to be desired, however, as most of the concoction failed to reach its destination, spilling onto the counter and splashing onto the wall and windows. Yet he paid no mind to his appalling accuracy, focusing instead on the meticulous combination of various elements. He poured one substance after the other into the emptied bowl with a precision that implied a working knowledge of chemistry. And after whisking the completed product with an egg beater, he proceeded to dump it onto the acidic splotch.

"Stand back," he said.

The Bishops stepped aside and watched as the Observer bent over and rocked the bowl back and forth with the rigidity of an automaton, the ejected solution splattering as it crashed onto the floor in a succession of sloppy heaves. Six heaves later, the improvised alkaline solution neutralized the acidic one on the floor, and the corrosive reaction came to a standstill; however, September's disregard for collateral damage had caused a mess larger than the original acidic spill (not to mention that it was dissolving the caked mud of September's footprints that Peter had yet to finish cleaning, adding to the disorder).

"It is done," announced September.

A sizable puddle of brownish sludge now claimed sovereignty over part of the kitchen floor. Not a word was exchanged for several moments, the trio staring at the mess.

It was only when something in the microwave exploded and splattered onto the door pane – followed shortly by a series of chimes signalling the cooking was done – that Peter looked to Walter, who bowed down his head.

"...No more chemistry in the house," said Peter, passing his hand down his face. "Alright?"

"Yes," replied Walter in a meek tone. "I think it would be best."

"Now, I want you guys to go do something else while I...clean this up," ordered Peter.

But as Peter poised himself to begin the operation, he was stopped by the Observer.

"You must not disturb the solution," warned September. "The reaction has yet to complete."

"Well in that case, September and I will clean it later," said Walter.

"You don't have to do that, Walter," countered Peter. "I don't mind cleaning up."

"No, no!" replied Walter, not wanting to hear anything of it. "You don't need to worry about a thing. This is _my_ mistake, so it is _my_ responsibility to fix it!"

Walter seemed suddenly troubled and morose at the pronouncement of the sentence, though Peter didn't question it.

At Peter's behest, they took off their aprons, gloves, and glasses before departing the wasteland their kitchen had become.

"Whatever happened to your movie marathon?" asked Peter as his father passed by.

"Oh, yes, the _movie_!" burst Walter quite suddenly. "I had completely forgotten! I went to the kitchen to get myself something to drink, and I suppose one thing led to another; the next thing I knew, September was assisting me in chemical experimentation! Funny how these things happen, wouldn't you say?"

Walter chuckled to himself, but Peter saw no humor in the situation; the elder Bishop's nostalgia died at his son's stern glare, and he dutifully shuffled to the living room.

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>He had only been called down a few more times since what he was tempted to call the Boston Chemical Meltdown of 2009. To his great relief, it was only for relatively minor things, such as helping them fix the remote (which was curiously missing its batteries), or to fetch Walter's robe. So for the most part, Peter was able to find the rest and relaxation he had been seeking (and by that point, deserved).<p>

Yet as the night progressed, he had become so accustomed to being called down that he felt something was amiss when Walter's voice had not resounded for a significant period of time. Peter began to wonder what they could have been up to; the fingers of curiosity beckoned him at the door frame, and Peter was powerless to heed them.

He began to think that something really was amiss when he heard no sign of activity from the first floor. The television appeared to have been turned off. More disconcerting were the periodic shuffling sounds, subtle, but distinct enough to reveal themselves as light footfalls. While he was sure it was merely one of the two sleepover enthusiasts, his mind projected thoughts of a grimmer nature onto the situation. What if something had happened to them? What if someone had broken into his house? What if _another_ Observer had broken into his house?

Oh, God. What if _all_ of the Observers had broken into his house?

He shook his head, cursing his propensity for paranoia as he descended the stairs.

The first thing he did upon arrival to the ground floor was check the living room. As he had suspected, there was no one there. Tentatively, he called out.

"Walter?"

A noise from the kitchen came as a reply. Yet he found that the kitchen was just as devoid of life, although Peter was nonetheless glad to see that Walter had kept his end of the bargain and cleaned up the mess. As he assessed the curious lack of house guests, movement from the corner of his eye alerted him to a presence down the hall, which quickly entered the living room. Peter sprung the other way, intending to intercept whatever it was.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that it was just September, who was gripping a pillow in his hands.

"Oh, it's just you! Where's Walter?"

"Silence," bid September.

"Excuse me?"

"You will alert Walter to my presence," explained September. "I must find him. He is my opponent."

"Opponent for what?"

"We are enacting a possible outcome where we are adversaries who use pillows as weapons."

Peter looked at the pillow, feeling dumb for not having caught on sooner.

"Oh, a _pillow fight_," clarified Peter. "How's that working for you so far?"

The Observer seemed unsure how to approach the question.

"It is interesting," he replied after a moment's consideration. "It is curious that we should duel with pillows, however. It will take quite some time before a victor emerges. By my calculations, we could only continue for approximately thirty years, after which I would inevitably win by default."

Before Peter could question September on the finer points of Observer logic, Walter emerged from the hallway and ambushed September with a flurry of swings from his pillow.

"Ha, ha! Take _this_!"

September assumed a defensive position after the first few hits of the barrage before proceeding to strike back, seeking Walter's unprotected flanks. At this, Walter retreated into the hallway, howling with maniacal laughter as September gave chase. Peter followed them from afar, looking into the kitchen, where they were playing a cat and mouse game around the central isle; their pillowed feints threatened to topple counter-top objects.

"Guys?" said Peter. "Um, guys...?"

But they were too absorbed in their battle to take notice of Peter's interpellation. Walter suddenly managed to outwit September and break away from the kitchen, passing through the dining room as he fended off the Observer at his heels with blind swings (and toppling a chair in the process). He passed by his son, who placed himself between the two.

"Hold on for a second!" said Peter. "Look, I don't mind you if guys smack each other with those things, but you can at least be a bit more _careful_."

Walter nodded in relent, appearing somewhat embarrassed. However, September was unmoved by Peter's warning.

"Peter, you must not interfere," he said. "I must defeat Walter."

September charged for Walter, but Peter stopped him.

"Yeah, I understand that," assured the Boy. "I just don't want you to break things in the process."

"Why are you hindering me?" asked September, unable to get past the obstruction that was the Boy. Apparently realizing something, he backed away a little. "If you choose to stand in my way, then I must consider you my adversary also."

He then bitch-slapped Peter across the face with his pillow.

Not only was Peter unprepared, the awkward posturing of the Observer making it hard to anticipate his movements, but the precision and strength of his blow sent Peter stumbling. September did not stop to respond to Peter's annoyed pleas, continuing his assault.

"Ow! Ah! What the hell – Gah! Stop that!"

Walter, seeing his unarmed son being brutalized, came to the rescue.

"I'll save you, Peter!"

The man's wild, undisciplined swings, while not as calculated and thought out as September's, were nonetheless effective due to their unpredictability, exploiting the Observer's lack of familiarity with not being able to perceive things before they happened, and he was thus driven back.

"Peter, take this!"

Walter took a pillow near the sleeping bags and handed it to Peter. And none too soon; September returned in full force, attacking them both. The Bishops answered with a joint offensive, trying to counter the Observer's superior technique.

"Is that how you want to play?" taunted Peter, unwittingly getting sucked into the game. "Walter, go flank him!"

His father ran for the hall as Peter covered for him, fencing with September solo. It was a decidedly challenging affair; it was hard to tell how seriously the Observer was taking this, but the meticulous delivery of his strikes implied he perceived it as a contest of will, so Peter stepped up his game to match.

Suddenly, Walter appeared from behind September with a sort of laughing war cry, having contoured the first floor in ambush. The Observer was caught off guard, and was now stuck defending two fronts at once. Apparently realizing it to be futile, he stopped altogether, causing the Bishops to tone down their attacks, before at last stopping. The three stood still, only the harried breaths of the two humans in the room warding away silence.

Then September darted for the hallway.

"Crap! He faked us out!" said Peter. "Close him off!"

"I've got it!"

The Bishops split up, quickly assuming control of either of the corridor's ends, trapping the Observer. Seeing this, September spun and whipped Peter in the side before taking advantage of the Boy's momentary lapse in defense to squeeze his way past him and enter the staircase.

"He's going upstairs!" said Peter.

The two sped off after him; yet by the time Peter reached the second floor corridor, their adversary had vanished. Peter immediately entered the guest room, yet found no one. When he re-entered the hall, he bumped into Walter, who, startled, proceeded to beat him, forcing Peter into a defensive position.

"I thought we were supposed to be on the same team!" cried Peter. Yet Walter failed to stop, pure fun taking precedence taking over such things as unspoken agreement. "Alright, have it _your_ way!"

Peter changed his stance, deflecting Walter's pillow. Their familial skirmish was quickly interrupted, however, as September suddenly emerged from Walter's room, intent on taking them out. The Bishops made for the stairs, trying to escape the grasp of their sudden pursuer.

The pillow war went on for another fifteen minutes, a love letter to chaos and mayhem. What alliances formed there were short-lived, loyalties forged only as a means to save one's skin, broken when the common threat was driven back. For the most part, it was a three-way game of cat and mouse, with no one individual ever having the upper hand for more than a few moments. Peter couldn't stop laughing throughout. He laughed at the others and the faces they made when he hit them; he laughed at himself for having gotten involved in all this madness; he laughed at everything, because he found himself more content than he'd been in a long time, forgetting all of his troubles.

The climax of the battle was waged upstairs in Walter's room, with the three standing in a loose triangle and battering the other two with frenzied blows. Yet soon, their laughter crippled their movements, and the Bishops cramped onto the bed and floor, convulsing in hysteria. September soon joined in as well, thinking that this must be the appropriate response to the situation; it was a monotonous mimicry of their laughter, made without expression or smile.

"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha."

The Bishops stopped as they noticed the forced, out of place sound in the room. After a good ten seconds, September's pseudo-chuckles ceased, leaving only silence. Peter and Walter turned to one another, faces perplexed.

Then they erupted in raucous laughter once more, joined soon after by the robotic chanting of their bald companion.

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>"Where is the washroom?" asked September. "I must go u–"<p>

"It's over there, to your right," interrupted Peter, barely sparing himself the image.

The Bishops watched as September directed himself to the door in question before disappearing inside, closing the door behind him; at least he understood the basic principles of using the washroom, thought Peter.

It had been five minutes since their episode of tear-eyed merriment concluded. Their throats were sore, as were their sides; and Peter's diaphragm twitched in spasm every now and again whenever the thought of the pillow fight resurfaced.

After delivering a hefty yawn, Walter spoke.

"How invigorating that was! Though I must admit that I am not as young as I used to be. I'm about ready to turn in."

"Good," said Peter. "You're going to need your rest. We're going to be getting up early tomorrow morning."

"What for?"

"Olivia called earlier," he explained. "She said bodies are going to be arriving at the lab, so we're going to have to be there as early as possible."

Walter nodded; however, an awkward tension broiled as both realized where the conversation was heading.

"We're going to have to tell the others," said Peter at length. "About him."

Just as Peter finished, Walter turned to grip Peter's shoulders.

"We can't!" pleaded Walter. "If we tell them, they'll take him away and lock him up!" Peter bid his father to lower his voice, which he then did, speaking in a more hushed tone. "Why can't he simply stay here with us?"

"If we don't tell them now, they're going to find out sooner or later," explained Peter. "We can't keep this a secret forever."

"But he has nowhere else to go! And I like it when he's here! I'm sure we can figure out a way to have him stay here without the others knowing. There must be a way! Please, Peter!"

He clenched his jaw as he looked into Walter's watering, supplicating eyes before announcing the verdict with a lengthy sigh.

"He can stay with us."

Walter proceeded to embrace his son like a child thanking a parent for a Christmas present.

"Thank you, son!"

The old man's face beamed with a childlike gratitude, and Peter couldn't help but smile, infected with contagious glee.

At that moment, September emerged from the bathroom, his arrival heralded by a flushing whirr. His head turned to them, and Walter disengaged from Peter.

"Alright you two," said Peter. "It's time to get ready for bed."

With that, Walter accosted September and guided him to the stairs while Peter followed some distance behind, knowing full well the decision he just made would come bite him in the ass when he least expected it.

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p><em>...Klaatu...barada...nikto!<em>

September was convinced there was no film more fascinating.

He wasn't aware of why that was; yet would he have known, he would have discovered it was due to the parallels that existed between his existence and that of the one called Klaatu. They both were of non-partisan stances regarding humanity, and both interfered in their affairs when it was absolutely necessary. They both knew more about the humans then they did. And Gort and Klaatu's craft were stylistically reminiscent of Matter, Yet Not Matter.

The messages of the film eluded his grasp entirely (as they were aimed to humans), but other elements captured his interest. He enjoyed Klaatu's remarks about the peculiarities of human behaviour and interaction. He enjoyed how Klaatu corrected the equations of Jacob Barnhardt (the answer was as obvious to September as it was to the alien). He enjoyed Klaatu's employment of advanced, sophisticated technology.

As the movie progressed, however, he found that Klaatu began to remind more and more of August, who had recently fallen. Just as August was shot due to his involvement with the humans, so too did Klaatu meet a fatal demise. He remembered with perfect clarity of the moment where he went to retrieve August using the Bentley parked in the garage of the Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place. From there, September drove his comrade back to Perpetual Halls. Seeing as the bodily death of one of their own was unprecedented, they had debated long on what to do; yet to their surprise, That Which They Served took matters into its own hands. It emerged from the ground as an exact scale replica of their own forms. It took August into its arms, cradling him, staring at his body with what they failed to recognize as infinite loss; the figure then carried August into the darkness, never to be seen again.

The episode had stirred many questions. What happened to August? Where did he go? What happens to one of them if they die?

In retrospect, September unwittingly associated Klaatu's character with August, and when the movie ended, he desired to view it once more, not realizing that what he actually wanted was to see the August in Klaatu; for among his fellows, August had been the one he had interacted with the most, and they had held frequent discussions about many things, sometimes even observing events together. On his long list of favorite things, August ranked near the top; the thought that he would never see him again elicited disquieting sensations within him.

It took him some time to figure out how to replay the movie, especially since he could no longer interface with electric systems through touch, which he was inclined to do. But through trial and error, he found the solution, and proceeded to view the movie from the beginning.

Walter stirred on the couch, where he had chosen to sleep.

"Aren't you tired?" asked Walter.

"No. I had slept earlier in the day. I will only require another sleep cycle tomorrow at approximately four in the afternoon."

"Is that so?" asked Walter. "In that case, I suppose I'll leave you to your film."

"If you wish, I can cease watching, should it be troubling you," offered September; as he knew, humans needed the least external stimulus possible in order to enter their sleep cycle.

"Oh, no," said Walter. "I don't mind."

Walter turned over again, becoming silent; yet a few moments later, he spoke.

"I'm glad you're staying with us, September."

The remark was duly noted, and September resumed staring at the screen, sitting in his pajamas close to the television; but as Walter tossed with a short snore, the Observer decided that he was glad as well.

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>It was two thirty in the morning when Peter awoke from the sound of creaking floorboard and turned, only to see September standing at his bedside.<p>

"Oh, _shit_!"

Peter shot up his sheets and immediately turned on the adjacent lamp, revealing the Observer.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, voice groggy and irritated.

"I was watching you sleep," replied the Observer blandly with a tilt of the head.

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, since I know you probably don't understand how creepy that sounds, I'm going to forgive you," he said. "But for future reference, I'd appreciate it if you didn't creep into my room at night. Or at least _knock _before you do."

"Understood. It will not occur again."

September stood there, motionless, continuing to stare at Peter, who still had trouble rationalizing the sight of an Observer in pajamas.

"Can't sleep?" guessed Peter.

"Not at the present time. I will only enter my next sleep cycle in approximately fourteen hours." He paused for a moment. "I have come here to tell you something, Peter."

"What is it?" asked Peter, curious.

"Thank you for letting me stay and not telling the others about it."

Peter wondered whether September's act of gratitude was genuine or if it was a learned behavior; whatever it was, he accepted it without much of a fuss.

"No problem." Peter's brows then flexed. "Wait, you _heard_ that?"

"Yes. You whisper loudly."

"...Oh."

The two fell into silence, where the Observer continued to linger awkwardly at Peter's bed.

"You are kinder than the other humans," noted the Observer. "You remind me of the dodos."

"Um...thanks?"

"I will leave you to your sleep, now," stated September.

And as he did, he took Peter's covers and replaced them over his body, then closed the lamp. He went to the door, and before closing it, spoke.

"Good night, Peter."

After September had left, Peter turned, drifting to sleep, only realizing several minutes later that he had just been tucked in by an Observer.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Mild nudity in this one. Though I would imagine this would only provide more incentive to continue reading than to turn away. :P_

* * *

><p><strong><span>Chapter 5<span>**

Peter could not help but audibly sigh in relief as the hot water poured over him.

It had been a trying five days. The Jon Osterman case had taken up a lot of his time, mostly because their investigation had yet to yield promising results. The cosmic scales of balance apparently took notice, and in their infinite pity, they counteracted the monotony that had been work on his most recent Fringe case by raising the degree of total unpredictability that was living in a house with an Observer. Peter shook an imagined fist at the universe, at fate, at anything and everything. To deal with a set of weird and unusual events at work, only to turn around and do the same at home, was wracking in its stress.

While at the lab, Peter had to ensure neither he nor Walter made any references whatsoever to the fugitive they were harboring. It was going fine until the second day. In his lack of vigilance, Walter went off on a tangent in Astrid's company about the great fun him and his friend _September_ had the previous night. When Astrid naturally inquired further on the identity of this sudden friend, Peter glared at him with scalding intensity from across the lab, and Walter, realizing his lapse in judgement, explained that he had recently appropriated himself a new pet goldfish, who he had christened September.

"Hold on, Walter," said Astrid. "How on Earth did a goldfish beat you at Risk _seven times in a row_?"

"Oh, yes, well..." Walter stumbled momentarily before he straightened up, delivering an impromptu explanation with theatrical delivery. "It would be unwise to underestimate a goldfish in battle, Astatine," he said, pointing a finger in the air. "They have no idea what they're doing, so they make highly unpredictable opponents!"

She looked to Peter for an explanation; he brought his index and thumb to a pinch near his lips, and she nodded in understanding before turning to Walter, smiling and patting him on the shoulder, telling him that she was glad he had found himself a new friend.

A friend who apparently helped him bake seafood pancakes and build a small-scale particle accelerator.

Walter had wizened since the mishap, thankfully, but Peter knew too well that they had not made it out of the woods, and had remained on constant guard since. Olivia and Astrid had each noted that Peter seemed more tired than he usually did. He brushed it off as the combined stress of dealing with the fruitless case and Walter's antics; how he wished he could confide in them of just how much he was forced to endure.

September had proven a greater burden than Peter had bargained for, and he was already expecting the worst. Since the Bishops were often called to the lab, they had to leave September behind at the house. Of course, the Observer had to then go outside and wander around in the neighbor's backyard, trying to communicate with the snails and spiders in her garden using the vibrations of conscientiously-applied vocal cord impulses. Miss Langley was awfully perturbed – and understandably so – to see a bald man in a suit chanting directly at her plants, and tried to shoo him away. When she threatened to call the police after his incessant and woefully poor attempts at parroting her every word, he said in ominous cadence that no one can know he was there, and proceeded to hurriedly climb over the fence to topple awkwardly onto Bishop Property.

When Miss Langley came over to ask the Bishops why a strange man had entered their house, Peter was forced to improvise, saying that the man staring at her through a narrow slit in the front window's curtains was a cousin of his with severe schizophrenia who they allowed to stay in their home after his parents became unable to care for him. At this, she expressed her sympathy and apologized over Peter's shoulder to the man that was poking his head out the doorframe with paranoid eyes; September immediately retreated after realizing he was being addressed, unwittingly helping Peter sell his case.

This was one of many memorable incidents that occurred in vicinity of the Bishop household when they were away. Two of their other neighbors had acquainted themselves with My Schizophrenic Cousin Trevor in the time since. However, most occurrences unfolded within the household, and his gratitude just barely outweighed his monumental annoyance.

Due to September's time-shifting sleep schedule, he was always awake for several consecutive hours – mostly during the night – where he made it his apparent mission to wage a fierce war with common sense. Objects were misplaced in the strangest and most counter-intuitive of places, abandoned in apparent boredom following brief examination. Strange noises resounded in the early hours, either a result of activating something he wasn't supposed to, employing something in an experiment of his, or due to general clumsiness. But most grating of his guest's habits was to enter his room in the middle of the night and ask him the most inane and odd questions, making any meaningful rest fleeting at best.

If penguins could fly, where do you think they would go? If pepper makes one sneeze, what does salt do? When will the significance of Walt Lloyd's unique qualities be addressed?

It didn't help that Walter was the vinegar to his acolyte's baking soda, gleefully contributing to the general fracas that became evenings at the Bishop residence. The only periods of respite surfaced when September would sit ridiculously close to the television screen, assimilating popular culture through various programs and movies; but these moments were short-lived, as there was always something around to divert his attention, and the cycle would recommence.

Hence a long, warm shower to soothe the spirit and hopefully start this new day on a more relaxed foot. He massaged the shampoo in his hair, letting it foam as his fingers wove into his hair and scalp, eyes closed as the therapeutic sounds and scents enveloped him in a sensory paradise he could not fathom ever leaving.

The shower curtain was abruptly opened.

"Peter?"

The Boy's hands shifted feebly to his chest and nethers as he recoiled in alarm, screaming a few octaves higher than he would have liked. After nearly slipping on his feet, he gripped onto the curtain for stability, which he then used to shield himself from September's prying eyes.

"Oh, shi– what the fuck?"

"Would you be in possession of molasses, by any chance?" asked the Observer, his head entering the shower space. "I am attempting to create curried molasses cookies, but I cannot find any molasses."

"Couldn't you wait until _after_ I was done to ask me that?"

"Walter is in his sleep cycle, so I picked the lock to make my inquiry to you instead."

He appeared poised to respond, but then his eyes drifted to the curtain Peter was clutching, the only thing preventing his bald visitor from gazing upon his bare flesh.

"Why do you cover yourself?" he asked, head tilting.

"Because it's ordinarily _frowned upon_ to just barge into a bathroom when someone's taking a goddamn _shower_ and stare at their _naked bodies _with big, googly eyes! Now get the hell out!"

"But, that does not answer my–"

"OUT!"

September cocked his head, a curious twinkle in his eye.

"I understand, now," he said. "I once read in a Cosmopolitan magazine article that males of your species tend to have..._insecurities_ about their physical appearances while undressed, chief among them the comparative sizes of their genitalia."

Peter stared at him with disbelief as he went on, hair saturated with lather as the water continued to run.

"Here," he continued. "Perhaps if I remove my own clothing, you will not be as self-conscious about your physical appearance."

It was only when September undid his belt and fly that Peter realized what he was doing.

"What? NO!"

September paused, his pants anchored halfway around his thighs, but he continued to go on. Peter stopped him again, repeating 'no' over and over, as one would do to an untrained dog, changing his inflection and tone to coerce September into lifting his pants from his ankles. The Observer seemed perplexed, seemingly unsure of what Peter wanted him to do, bringing his pants up in tentative increments; it was only after repeated commands that he came to reset his pants around his waist.

Walter appeared in the bathroom doorway, then, donning a robe and rubbing his eyes.

"What's going on?" he said, approaching them, yawning. "You're making an awful racket in here."

"Peter is ashamed of his nudity," explained September.

"_Ashamed?_" he exclaimed, borderline indignant. "Nonsense! There's nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to one's own body. In fact, our bodies are marvelous things!"

In one swift motion, his robe fell to the floor around him, exposing his sexagenarian body for all to see.

"Jesus Christ, Walter!" said Peter, averting his eyes.

"Oh, don't be such a prude, son," replied his father. Walter then turned to September. "What are you still dressed for? Come on, off they come!"

At Walter's instructions, September pulled his suit pants to the floor once more.

"Enough, both of you!" yelled Peter. "Put your clothes back on _this instant_!"

Walter and September stopped at the ferocity in Peter's voice, donning the airs of children that had just been caught doing something they were not supposed to. Slowly, they sheathed themselves in their respective apparel, Peter reproaching them all the while.

"I've had enough of you two! I'm sick and tired of all the insane crap you guys are constantly pulling off! September, I know you're new to this human cohabitation thing, but you've got to learn to respect the personal spaces and privacy of others! And Walter, don't _encourage_ his damn behavior! Seriously, I can't even get ten minutes to myself anymore! This has _got_ to stop!"

They stared at Peter, cowed, transfixed by his uncharacteristic display of anger. After his speech had concluded, their eyes drifted down in unison, their expressions unchanging.

"What?"

When they did not answer him, he traced the source of their transfixion.

In his outburst, he had relinquished the curtain that had shielded him, and was now standing before his father and an eternal being in all of his naked glory, dripping wet.

Not a moment later, Peter swiped the curtains shut with blinding speed.

"GET. OUT!"

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>Later that morning, they had been summoned to the living room in what Peter had termed an 'emergency house meeting'. Walter sat on the couch, as did September; being no stranger to important meetings, the Observer was immobile and silent, awaiting the next phase in the procession. Opposite of the couch stood Peter, arms crossed, looking them down.<p>

"Listen up, guys," he began. "If we're all going to live under this house with something that passes as harmony, then we're going to have to set a few official ground rules."

September perked his ears. There are specific protocols to follow? Why had they not been outlined before? With interest, he listened.

"First, you aren't allowed to exit this house unless I'm here."

Walter raised his hand.

"Yes, Walter?"

"That seems awfully close to house arrest, Peter," countered Walter. "Surely a bit of freedom isn't too out of the question?"

"Whenever he goes out, he causes trouble," explained Peter. "Remember when he invited himself over to some kid's birthday party across the street and started devouring the cake?"

"I was hungry," said the Observer. "And I could not have predicted that many of the children would start crying."

"That's exactly it," said Peter. "If we don't want to attract attention to your presence here, we'll have no choice but for you to stay under our constant supervision. So you're not allowed to leave the house unless we say so. Got it?"

"Yes," he said, pausing to consider. "Understood."

"Good. Now, the second rule is that you can't disturb our 'sleep cycles' at night. That means trying to not make too much noise when you're out and about, and to stop coming up to my room and asking me questions every thirty minutes. And the third rule is that if you want to do something in the house, like an experiment or whatever, come inform me about if first. Although, if we're not here, then try not to do anything dangerous or overtly messy."

"Understood," said the Observer. "I will abide by these protocols."

"What are the protocols?" asked Peter, testing September's retention.

"I cannot leave the premises without authorization, interrupt your sleep cycles, or enact any activity before first conferring with you. I thought you already knew these."

"Never mind," said Peter, shaking his head a bit. "Now, Walter, I have a special job for you." At this, Walter's attention doubled. "Your job is to help September here follow these rules. And if both of you behave well, then at the end of the day, you'll both receive one of _these_."

From his pocket, he retrieved a flat sheet upon which rows of golden star stickers lay shimmering beneath a plastic film, which crinkled between Peter's fingers.

"What are those?" asked September.

"These, my good fellow, are gold stars. Good behavior is rewarded by golden stars, which I'll place on the fridge for either of you. Bad behavior, or breaking the rules, will make you lose a star. You each get three stars to begin with, and with every five stars you accumulate, you'll get the chance to ask for anything you want. A treat, a trip, whatever you want, as long as it's reasonable."

Peter smiled sly as he flashed the stickers before them. Yet while Walter was a rapt as he had expected him to be, the Observer seemed less enthused.

"I have no use for these stellar analogues," said September. "I am unsure of their necessity."

So Observers have no conception of incentive, thought Peter. He should have seen it coming.

"Alright, you don't have to get gold stars. But you still have to follow the rules."

"I will follow them."

"Peter, can I still have gold stars?" inquired Walter, hand raised in the air.

"Yes, Walter, you can have gold stars."

"Ha, ha! _Yes_!"

Walter shot up and snatched the sticker sheet from his son's hands in triumph, shuffling to the kitchen so as to place his initial three stickers on the refrigerator whiteboard.

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>All children needed structure in their lives if they are to develop properly. With a framework that was clearly defined, they could then focus on acquiring the skills necessary for life in human society.<p>

If it works for children, then it might well work for agents of greater cosmic forces.

At least, so Peter had figured. But apparently, he had figured correctly, for over the ensuing weekend, what chaos there had been had diminished by several orders of magnitude.

September followed protocol to the letter. He did not leave the house, nor did he disturb them at night (though he did assault Peter with questions the moment the Boy came downstairs in the morning). And he informed Peter of things of his activities, just as he had been told to do; but while this rule only applied to activities out of the ordinary, his Observer logic naturally took things to their extremes.

"Permission to sit on the couch?"

"Permission to enter the kitchen?"

"Permission to open the lights?"

"Permission to use the washroom?"

"Permission to flush the toilet?"

Peter quickly clarified that September needed only inform him of actions which may constitute potential safety or noise hazards in the house, advice September seemed to take to heart; and not a moment too soon, as he was starting to request permission to blink and breathe.

Something akin to peace had returned to the Bishop residence. Of course, Walter and September still made messes and noise, but at least they warned Peter beforehand, and the nights were not nearly as hectic. So when Monday morning came, Peter was less apprehensive of leaving the Observer on his own while they went to the Lab.

"We have to go now," said Peter at the door. "Remember the rules."

"Yes. I know the rules."

"Alright," he said with faint wariness in his voice.

Walter shuffled past Peter out the door, and Peter slowly closed the door, leaving September standing in the foyer. The Bishops walked to the car, seating themselves inside; yet Peter could not prevent his subconscious from chucking dire scenarios to the mental forefront. What if September set the house on fire? What if he blew out the kitchen with one of his experiments? Just as he began to reverse, Peter stopped the car.

_Damn it._

A minute after leaving through the front door, Peter flung it open, only to see that September had not moved an inch.

"Peter," he said. "What is it?"

"Uh, nothing," said Peter, seeing that nothing was amiss. "You sure you're going to stay out of trouble?"

"Yes."

"Alright... Good."

With a sigh, Peter closed the door once again, and the Bishops departed for Harvard University.

Twenty minutes later, Peter barged through the front door, having made a u-turn in paranoia halfway en route to the lab. Entering the house, his breathing was laboured by a quickened pulse, and he feared the worst.

Yet September still had not moved from his position in the lobby, still facing the door.

"Peter. What has happened?"

"Are you _one hundred percent sure_ that you're not going to cause trouble?" asked Peter sternly, eyes somewhat crazed.

"I can assure you that protocol will be upheld," said September. "There is no need to worry. I will see you when you return from the Lab."

Cursing his paranoia, Peter nodded and left the house, hoping with all his might that September wouldn't flood the house or destroy it or irradiate it or displace it in space-time in their absence.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Walter entered the house late that morning, none too pleased.

"Go home, Walter," Peter had said. "You've been working all night long; you need some rest."

Said work had involved testing his new hypothesis on how their Jon Osterman suspect was capable of teleporting through space at apparent will. There was little to give an indication as to how such a feat was being achieved, save that the act interfered with electrical systems, and left background electromagnetic signatures at the departure sites they have located.

With these few facts as his guide, Walter – with an ever-obliging Asterism at his side – prepared a set of experiments to determine whether his hunch was correct. It involved long periods of time standing in front of the black board jotting down differential equations to essential composers (among them Strauss and MC Hammer), until he would get a flash of insight and proceed to subject the test frogs he had acquired to increasingly elaborate experimentation.

This cycle continued until the early hours of the morning, a cycle that ultimately ended in failure. The suspect's ability seemed to operate neither via molecular dispersion and reintegration, nor through manipulation of space-time, at least, not in any discernible way. Having exhausted all possibilities, he found himself greatly discouraged and frustrated.

Not even the frog legs could cheer him up, succulent though they were.

Peter and Olivia had arrived to the lab in the early morning, where Peter managed to convince him to return to their house. Walter had naturally opposed the idea, explaining that the answers were just beyond his reach, and that he had to continue his work; it was only when Peter suggested that rest might be beneficial for his father's brain that he begrudgingly agreed. And so did Peter drive Walter home, warning him not to be too crazy with everyone's favorite housemate.

It was with fatigue and irritation that Walter shuffled inside, placing his coat on the rack.

"September?"

He found September in the living room, observing Bishop family photos that were placed on a shelf next to the television set. Sensing Doctor Bishop's presence, he faced him.

"Walter," he said. "You have returned."

Walter sat on the couch with a thunderous sigh.

"What has happened?" inquired September. "Are you not supposed to be at the lab?"

"I've been staying up all night trying to determine what sorcery that man has been using, but to no avail!" He let his arms plop to his sides in resignation. "What about you, September? How has your day been so far?"

"I have been meaning to speak to you about that," he said. "Do you have any supplementary reading material in your residence?"

"What do you mean? We have plenty of books lying around."

"But...I have finished reading them all two hours ago."

Walter brows jumped.

"You've read every single book in this house?" he exclaimed.

"Yes," said the Observer. "I have read all the fiction and non-fiction, and the National Geographic issues, and the recipe books and science manuals, and the dictionaries as well. I also found some magazines stored within Peter's closet –Playboy, the name was. It was... an enlightening read."

Walter face froze as September forevermore altered the way he perceived his son.

"...Oh."

The assimilation of all written works in the house had taken three hours, a half of which was devoted to finding more books to read. After that, he decided to scan the labels on every labeled item he could find, killing an additional thirty minutes. But following this endeavor, he had been left with nothing to do, nothing to pursue. It was only during this period that he realized that when he served That Which He Used To Serve, he was in a state of constant external stimulation, whether it be through observation of events, the consumption of food, or in the engagement of recreational activities.

But when taking into account the limitations imposed by the protocols Peter had instated, and the lengthy periods of time September was left to himself, there wasn't much left for the Observer to do, and he more often than not entered a state of which he had become intimately familiar with every aspect save its name.

Boredom.

Walter and September remained still in their shared silence, a silence broken by the latter.

"Do you have any suggestions on activities we could pursue?"

Walter retreated in reflection, staring into space; an idea began to formulate, and he appeared to pass through several phases of increasing lucidity before he clapped his hands and rubbed his palms with a devious smile.

"I've got it! Wait here just one moment."

And he sped off upstairs.

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>"...We arose out of necessity."<p>

September sat on the couch and Walter on the sofa as the former Observer shared his tale.

"The Great Causal Chain that governs the flow of all things was ours to steer, as per the will of That Which We Serve. Balance was the imperative; for without our intervention, things will naturally tend towards decay over time. Entropy leads to disorder, conscious beings are inherently drawn to destruction; it is an inevitability. To all worlds and times we thus traveled, ensuring the preservation of all things, which was our purpose from the onset."

Walter, who was bent forward, rapt by September's recounting, leaned back, deeply humbled.

"...Incredible."

Silence followed. Then, September turned to Walter.

"Walter, what did you say this was called?" he asked.

"It's an experimental hybrid," he said with a hint of pride. "I call it _Brown Betty_."

Walter reached forward and lit September's joint, and upon inhaling, the Observer sank into his seat, blowing smoke to the ceiling.

It had been fifteen minutes since Walter rushed downstairs with a plastic bag stuffed to bursting with a strange greenish material. He had watched as Walter deftly placed some of the mixture onto small strips of paper, which he rolled into cylindrical containers. Doctor Bishop had then placed the container to September's lips and lit the tip with a lighter.

"Now, inhale."

He did as he was instructed.

Nothing had happened, at least initially; seeing this, Walter told him to give it some time. And sure enough, the transition soon began, one so gradual that September didn't even notice the effect the drug was having on his body and mind, and at no point did his Observer brain suspect that his relaxed state and his increasingly talkative disposition were signs of something being amiss.

As September took another puff of his second joint, Walter continued.

"Agents of order, is that right? Spectacular. I had always imagined that to be the case. Though I must admit that I am still a bit confused. What is it you said you served again?"

September stopped; he probably shouldn't have been telling Walter all these things, but in his current state, he failed to see the harm.

"There is no accurate corollary in spoken word," said the Observer. "But perhaps the closest approximation would be the combined will of all conscious entities."

"Brilliant." Walter emitted a few throaty coughs. "You know, it's strange; you've told me things the whole of man will probably never figure out on their own, but even so, I don't think I generally feel any better or worse about things than I was before. Say, do you think that..."

He trailed off and began to snigger, pointing at September.

"What is it?" asked September.

Doctor Bishop struggled to formulate a coherent string of words.

"You...you have no _eyebrows_!"

He erupted in a wheezing fit of giggles, causing September to suddenly become very concerned. The Observer brought his hand to his brow ridges (though not without missing his head entirely the first time), where his eyes widened in shock.

"You are...correct," he said. "I...I do not. But _you_ have eyebrows."

Walter stopped laughing, struck square in the face by epiphany.

"Good God," he said. "You're right!"

Then his laughter resumed, his body rolling around in the sofa chair.

September continued to rub his brows; his hands then began to wander across his scalp, then to the rest of his head, circulating around his head and over his face in constant, rhythmic fashion.

Not even Matter, Yet Not Matter was as smooth.

"Walter," he said, tracing the contours of his skull with open palms. "Walter...I cannot stop. You must help me. Walter. Aaah. Aaaaaaaaaaah."

Walter appeared just as afraid as September was as he stood up and gripped his friend's wrists, putting an end to the trance.

"Are you alright?" asked Walter. "What happened?"

"My hands...it is as though they were moving of their own accord."

"I know what you mean," said Walter, seating himself beside September and placing his joint on the coffee table's ashtray. "In 1973, one of my hands slipped into my trousers without my knowledge while I was giving a lecture at Harvard. I had thought the increasingly baffled expressions in the room were rooted in the wonders of biochemistry; it was only fifteen minutes later that I realized my error and took my hand out."

"I have attended many of your lectures," said September, slowly passing his fingers through the smoke as it wafted to the ceiling. "They were all fascinating."

At this, Walter grew more contemplative.

"So you've been watching me for longer than I had thought," he said. "I've always wondered why you and your people were so interested in me. And Peter, for that matter." Then, in a flash, Walter became very agitated. "September, why did you save Peter and I at the lake? Why is it so important that Peter lives?"

"You are what we have termed _Prime Variables_," said September, "individuals who have the greatest propensity for affecting the progression of the Great Causal Chain. When I was..._discovered_ in the other Walter's lab, wanting to witness the creation of the cure that was to heal Peter of his affliction, I had caused the Great Causal Chain to stray from the intended path. My actions at Reiden Lake were merely to ensure Peter's survival, as was my mandate."

September remembered with great clarity the events of that time period. To fulfill uncounted eons of flawless service, only to be discovered standing at the lab by the other Walter, was an unforgivable oversight. He was infinitely fortunate to have been able to correct his mistake by saving the Boy's life, but his transgression did not go unpunished. Upon returning to the Perpetual Halls of the Timeless Forever Place, That Which He Used To Serve had forced him to sit on the Non-Linear Time-Out Stool in the Spatially Recursive Corner for the linear equivalent of one hundred million years so that he may reflect on his mistake.

For a long time, the others had teased him for it, referring to him as Septemb_erred_ or Septemb_error_ or _He Who Fails To Take the Necessary Precautions So As To Remain Undiscovered During Significant Events_.

The last title was particularly shaming.

They would also warn each other not to '_commit a September_' before heading off to observe important moments, as well as frequently recount the same joke to one another, usually in September's presence.

"Knock, knock."

"Who is there?"

"September makes mistakes."

Incapable of experiencing laughter, they would simply point to September with stoic faces, and September could do nothing but dip his head a little.

It wasn't as bad as it used to be, thankfully. March had been the most relentless of them, often going out of his way to remind September of his shortcomings; after September reported his colleague's behaviour to That Which He Used To Serve – and March's subsequent confinement to the Non-Linear Time-Out Stool for one hundred thousand years – the teasing had been scaled down in intensity, though he would still periodically ask September if he would like a side of failure to go with his enchiladas.

"But I cannot tell you the reason _why_ you and Peter are important," finished September, "because I do not know. I have merely served the will of That Which I Used To Serve without question."

Walter nodded, coming to terms with the Observer's answer; after taking another puff, he patted September on the lap with enthusiasm.

"How about some food, hmm? I'm feeling curiously peckish at the moment."

He stood upright and manoeuvred to the kitchen. As Walter rummaged around in the cupboards for munchies-friendly snacks, September held his joint in his fingers, observing it with relaxed, bloodshot eyes. It was a curious substance, this Brown Betty, acquainting him with a state of serenity unlike any he had never experienced. Placing the joint on the ashtray, he decided that he should assimilate Brown Betty more regularly.

Something caught his eye, then; he held out his hand before his eyes, moving it languidly, and he was astonished to see a trailing, lingering afterimage to the arc of his hand's motion. The significance of this occurrence was not immediately obvious to his slowed mind, but soon, it was all too clear.

"Walter," said September, wide eyes affixed to his outstretched palm.

"Yes?" replied Walter, carrying a back-breaking load of assorted snacks. "What is it?"

"I believe my powers are..._returning_."

Walter sat down in the sofa, digging into the Twinkie box with a puzzled face.

"What do you mean?" he asked through bites. "Didn't you say your powers were stripped?"

"They _were_ stripped...but it seems as though my temporal perception is resurfacing. I can perceive the past of my hand's movements as it is happening." He looked to Walter. "I believe it might be the Brown Betty."

They sat in stoned silence, processing the implications of such a notion.

"Are you absolutely certain of this?" asked Walter.

"It is the only logical explanation. Though I will have to test this further." He took a breather of cannabis before proceeding. "Walter, I want you to think of a number. Any number will suffice. Are you thinking of your number?"

Walter clenched his eyelids shut for a moment, then opened them and nodded.

"The number you are thinking of... is three thousand and seventy-one."

"Ha! I chose _four_!" replied Walter, pointing in triumph.

The Observer was greatly confused.

"Is that not what I said?"

Walter paused.

"You know...I think you might have," said Walter, awestruck. "Good God! How did you _do_ that?"

"It appears my ability to intuit the thoughts of humans has also returned," said September.

In this altered state, the knowledge that he was regaining what was taken from him made it all the more invigorating. He had been yearning for normalcy for the entirety of his exile; he did not expect that the key would lie in inhaling the fumes of burning plants, but he did not question it any further.

"This is excellent news!" exclaimed Walter. "You know, once, after a particularly lengthy _bong _session, I suddenly found myself to have become _completely invisible_! I walked around in a park wearing nothing but an undershirt and sandals, and people were simply ignoring me, not even looking my way as though I wasn't even there! Good times, those were."

"It is decided, then," declared September. "If I am to regain the full extent of my abilities, I must smoke as much Brown Betty as I possibly can."

And the Observer proceeded to suck on his joint with the totality of his pulmonary might.

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>Peter Bishop came home to find an Observer bobbing up and down in the closet.<p>

He returned later in the afternoon after another unsuccessful day at the lab, where the only thing of note were interviews with witnesses of codename Jon Osterman's latest victim. Wearily, he took off his shoes and coat before entering the corridor leading to the kitchen; the house smelled strongly of air freshener for some reason, tinged with something he could not quite place. He was poised to call out for Walter and September, but something caught his attention, a muted shuffling sound originating from inside the closet.

Tentatively, he opened the door, only to see September facing the corner, bobbing in place.

"Why is this not working?" noted the Observer to himself. Noticing the influx of light, he turned around to address Peter. "What are you doing? I cannot be seen."

He then shut the door, enclosing himself once more. Peter tried to open the door again, but September resisted, pulling on the knob on his end.

"What the hell is going on here?" exclaimed Peter.

Peter wrenched the door open, and September sped out like an insect skittering out of the way of a malevolent shoe. The Boy pursued him upstairs, where he locked himself in the bathroom.

"September!" said Peter, knocking.

"Do not disturb me," came the reply from the bathroom. "I must remain unobserved if I am to achieve teleportation."

"Teleportation? What in the..."

With precise movements, Peter exploited the age of the door by twisting the knob at certain key points, thereby unlocking it; he went inside to see September standing on the toilet seat to perform his bobbing. Seeing Peter, he hopped off the toilet and scurried past Peter, emerging into the hallway and heading to the stairs.

"Wait just one second!"

September stopped and turned around.

"Wait just one second!" said September.

Peter grunted. _This again?_

"Will you stop that?"

"Will you...stop?"

"What are you–"

"–what?"

"What?"

"Yes."

"Stop it!"

September stopped, tilting his head as he usually did; this time, however, it seemed as though his head had suddenly multiplied its weight, and it began to drag the Observer to the side, nearly toppling his body from the momentum. He regained himself in seconds, holding his hands out for equilibrium, upon which Peter continued.

"Calm down for a second. I just was to talk –"

"–Stop it!"

It then occurred to Peter that while September was trying to do that preemptive copycat thing he does, his responses kept getting further delayed.

"Are you okay?" asked Peter. "And what's up with your _eyes_?"

Indeed, September's red eyes were a startling sight given that his superficial appearance never changed; although in every other respect, he was as detached from reality as ever, if not more so.

"There is no time," said September, ignoring him. He stared at his hand, waving it side to side, as though something were wrong with it. "I need _more_."

He made for the first floor. Peter caught up to him in the living room, where the Observer was searching around for something, lifting cushions and bending down to inspect the space beneath the table and couch. Peter dragged him to his feet and gripped him by the shoulders.

"Calm down for a minute! What's going on?"

"My powers are beginning to fade away. I must absorb more Brown Betty to maintain them. Do you not see, Peter?" He stroked Peter's face with a delicate hand. "Brown Betty is the key to greater understanding."

Peter swatted the hand away, totally weirded out by the gesture.

"Brown Betty?"

"Yes," explained the suited man. "We burned some green plants and inhaled their fumes, and as a result, my abilities have resurfaced. It is...what was the word? _Rad_."

"Oh my God..."

The extreme behavior, the reddened eyes, the lingering scent masked by copious use of air freshener; everything fell into place, and he was sorely displeased with the picture that was painted.

_...Walter._

Peter abandoned his fried housemate, calling out for Walter. He brought his search upstairs, where he at last found Walter not in his room, but in Peter's; he was taking a nap on his son's bed, spooning the pillow Peter slept with at night.

"Walter!"

The man shot up, all senses on alert.

"W-what? Oh, it's you, Peter." He bore the smile of an innocent. "How was your day?"

"You gave the Observer _weed_? Are you out of your mind?"

"I'm not. But he certainly is." He giggled. "You should have seen him earlier."

"He's _still_ acting crazy! How much of the stuff did you give to him?"

"We...we shared a whole bag. But he smoked most of it. He just kept on going and going. I have never witnessed anything so inspiring."

Peter couldn't believe his ears.

"Inspiring? Do you have _any_ idea –"

The sight of September running around in circles in the backyard through the bedroom window neutered all capacity for rational thought.

"Oh, for Christ's sake!"

Peter sped downstairs, through the kitchen, and out the back door, where September continued to do laps with uncoordinated movements.

"What are you doing _now_?" asked Peter, severely annoyed.

"My powers may be fading, but I can at least attempt to cross between worlds."

"Alright, fine. But could you at least do it inside?"

"No! I must crossover before it is too late."

September wandered without aim around the lot, expecting to pierce the inter-reality barrier at any moment. Peter tried to stop him, but he managed to wriggle from the Boy's grip at every turn, until he was forced to actively try to corner the Observer; alas, his movements were highly unpredictable, and Peter wondered which of them seemed more foolish at that moment.

The situation grew more complicated when he spotted Miss Langley watching from the window of her house as her neighbor tired to pin down a slippery fish of a bald man who chanted the same monotone mantra in endless succession.

"I must crossover to the other universe! I must crossover to the other universe!"

Eventually, Peter was able to halt September's movements through employment of a bear hug of which there was no escape.

"Okay, Trevor," said Peter, knowing he was being watched. "Come on; we're going to inside now, alright? Follow me. This way, that's right."

He corralled the Observer back inside, waving to Miss Langley, who reciprocated, her face one of sympathy. The Observer was placed in the dining room, where he was made to sit; all the while, September appeared shell-shocked, allowing himself to be guided without complaint or resistance.

"Peter," said the Observer at last. "It appears my powers have disappeared."

It came as a great disappointment to him; to have been so close to returning to his old self, only to have it all break apart like the smoke that emanated from the Brown Betty. To have to experience the loss of his powers once again only drove further the reality that there would be no going back to the way things were prior to his banishment.

Walter poked his head in, put on the defensive from his son's earlier outburst. Peter clenched his jaw with crossed arms, staring at his father.

"No more drugs," said Walter, acknowledging his mistake.

"No more drugs," affirmed Peter.

And just to make sure the point would stick, Peter went to the fridge and removed a gold star. He then left upstairs to escape the lunacy of it all, abandoning Walter and September to wallow in their respective disappointment.

Yet even so, Walter could not help but chuckle quietly as he shared a complicit glance with September, who belted out his atonal mock laughter in response.

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><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

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><p><em>AN: Next time, we kick it up a notch._


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

There were only three times in his life where Peter Bishop could say he had ever experienced intense dread.

The first time was when he left for Europe in his early adulthood, not knowing where he was headed and still struggling to figure out why he was leaving in the first place.

The second was in Syria of '97, where everyone including Peter thought he was going to die as he fell off the rooftop and into the glacial waters that awaited, only to regain consciousness on a shore downriver, the bullets having narrowly avoided any major organs or arteries.

And the third was but moments ago as the Observer entered the Lab, clad in blue Flintstone pyjamas and bunny slippers while holding a cardboard box.

The Boy had paid no mind to the sound of the door opening, but he was distracted from reviewing security footage on the monitor from the Osterman case by the shuffling, dragging footfalls, and more so by the voice that called out to him.

"...Peter."

Peter did a double-take from the monitor, his stomach sinking to China as he saw the Observer squatting behind a metallic shelf near the entrance, poking his head out as he tried to remain hidden from sight. Astrid and Olivia were currently out and Walter was in his office, but Peter nonetheless looked around with frantic swivels to make sure nobody else was in the Lab.

"...Peter."

"What the hell are doing here?" asked Peter in hushed voice. "Are you _fucking insane_? Get out of here before someone sees you!"

"A man came to the house," explained September. "He said he had a package for Walter, but he was absent, so I accepted it in his stead. I did not know what to do with it, and the package appears to be of great importance, so I walked here to give it to him."

Peter could decide who he pitied more; himself, for thinking that September might actually listen for once, or those unfortunate souls who witnessed a bald man in pyjamas walking around Boston in broad daylight.

"You should have waited until we got back!" berated Peter. He walked up to where September was hiding, and the Observer rose.

"Lower your voice," said September, "or we surely will be discovered. Remember, I am not supposed to be here."

It took everything for Peter not to strangle the Observer right where he stood, and everything and more not to explode when September placed a single finger on Peter's lips, bidding him to silence what moans of exasperation managed to slip through clenched teeth.

"We must hurry," said September. "There is not much time. Where is Walter? I must go to him."

Peter stopped September as he began to drift away.

"No, I'll do it," he insisted. "You need to get out of here before Olivia or Astrid get back. Or worse, both."

Peter reached for the Cardboard Box of Great Importance, but the Observer pulled it away, then looked at the Boy as though he had suddenly grown an arm out of his face.

"I will do it," assured September. "You need not concern yourself with this burden." He appeared oddly resolute. "I must finish what I had started."

"_You_ have to finish getting the hell _back_ to the house!" replied Peter, waving at the door. "Give me the box, _now_!"

Peter lunged for it, but the Observer held it above his head, beyond the human's reach. He tried again, but September stepped back, then back again, evading the Boy's attempts to retrieve it for himself. Yet when Peter tried to reach his arms around him, September brought the box to his chest, his arms seeking to form an impenetrable fortress. With Peter's arms wrapped around him from behind, the pair wrestled and twirled about, each vying for dominion over the package.

Almost two minutes passed before either of them noticed Astrid by the door.

Both her purse and her jaw had dropped to the floor, her eyes wide in bewilderment; before her was a bald man in blue Flintstone pyjamas and bunny slippers, doubled over as he clutched a cardboard box while Peter was mounted over him from behind, arms dug into the folds of the Observer's own.

Peter didn't know how long Astrid had been standing there, but the trio didn't dare move, even as Olivia walked in a few minutes later, at which point all four became stuck in a game of Freeze being played to the music of awkward.

"Peter?" spoke Walter's enthused voice. "I had a most enlightening dream about quantum decoherence while napping in my office. I found myself in a glade drifting through the Crab Nebula, along with you, that white rabbit from the colourful cereal commercial, and a talking lava lamp, and we went..."

Walter shuffled out of his office, rubbing the last ember of sleep from his eyes; upon seeing the scene and realizing what was going on, he immediately rushed in front of September and his son, prepared to defend them. However, his interest was quickly piqued by the box that had inspired his son and his house guest to adopt their current interlocking position.

"What's this?" he asked, and September released it wordlessly, after which Walter read the label. "Ah, it finally came!" he exclaimed. "I'm going to go try it on right now!"

With glee, he sped back into his office. At the sound of the door closing, Peter and September disengaged and stood, the former unbearably tense and the latter just as tense as he always was. Olivia and Astrid were now sharing the load of gawking at September and looking at Peter with a reproachful, yet worried stare that demanded an answer, until at last Peter stepped forward to speak.

"Picture, if you will, a reasonable explanation to all this."

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>Olivia ran her hand through her ponytailed hair, wishing for a drink. She brought clasped hands over her mouth before replying.<p>

"So basically, you've been keeping the Observer in your house for almost two weeks," she said.

"...Basically," replied Peter.

"And it didn't occur to you at all to tell us that whole time?"

They were gathered in the middle of the Lab. Olivia and Astrid were one side, the Bishops on the other; September stood between the two camps, observing the exchange from the sidelines.

"At which point did you think this was a good idea?" asked Olivia. She was just as displeased as Peter had anticipated, if not more so.

"Look, I already told you," said Peter. "His buddies kicked him out of the club, and he lost his mojo powder. He came looking for us, and we decided to let him crash at our place until he got back on his feet."

"I understand... I think," said Astrid. "But still... he's an Observer. We've been looking for them for a long time. They have all the answers, right? We deserved to know."

"Trust me, there isn't much to know," assured Peter.

"I know you might have had good intentions, Peter," began Olivia, "but this doesn't change the fact that you harboured a high-priority – and potentially dangerous – target."

"He might have been dangerous once," said Walter, "but our ageless man-thing of a friend is quite harmless now."

The strong reservations Peter had on his father's opinion were kept to himself, as well as his puzzlement as to why Walter kept moving his hips slightly. A spell of silence passed, and Olivia voiced what they were all thinking.

"I'm going to have to inform Broyles about this."

"Absolutely not!" protested Walter at once. "If we tell him, they'll keep September with them forever. They'll...they'll lock him up! I will not have my friend end up alone in a cell."

Walter appeared highly distraught suddenly, and a bit aloof. Peter ventured to his side so as to place a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder.

"I can't promise how Broyles will react or what he'll want to do with him," explained Olivia, "but I'm sure that I'll be able to talk to him."

A fleeting smile escaped Doctor Bishop's lips.

"Walter... what _are_ you doing?" asked Astrid upon noticing Walter's shifting in his pants.

"What? Oh, didn't I tell you? I'm wearing my new pair of imported 100% Chinese silk briefs."

"So that's what the package was?" asked Peter, turning. "And since when do you know how to use the Internet?"

"I'll have you know that I'm not some incapable old man," he said, recoiling in indignation. "Just because I'm in my sixties doesn't mean I can't be _cool_ and – and _hip_."

"No one's calling your swag into question, Walter," said Peter. "What I will question is why you would buy something so pointless."

"Pointless? These are anything _but_ pointless! In fact, every man should know the sweet embrace of silk; I've never felt more masculine myself." He did a little dance to drive the point home. "Sure, they were mightily expensive, but they're worth every penny. Oh, that reminds me; I used one of your credit cards to make the purchase. I hope you don't mind."

Peter rolled his eyes and grunted.

"Walter, how many times do I have to tell you _not_ to use my credit cards to buy random and frivolous stuff?"

"Silk underwear and Doctor Who nightlights are most certainly not frivolous –"

"– Uh guys?" interjected Astrid. "Where's the Observer?"

They turned to see an empty space where the bald man once stood. The quartet scanned about the Lab, seeing no one but each other.

"September?" cried out Peter. "What the hell? He was right there. How did we not see him leave?"

Olivia and Peter spread out, the former out to the back and Peter checking Walter's office and the bathroom.

"You didn't see him leave either?" asked Astrid to Walter.

"No, I'm afraid not," he said, placing his hand on a nearby table. "If there is one ability our friend has not lost, it's blending into the background –"

He stopped, his eyes opening wide with curiosity. He then bent his knee forward, and his face quivered in unexpected pleasure as he stretched his legs in a lunge. "Oh...oh my..."

Astrid cringed disapprovingly. "Walter!"

Olivia came then, seeing what was going on but choosing to ignore it.

"Uh, he isn't here," she announced. "He must have left the Lab during our conversation."

"He lost all of his powers," said Peter, now returning. "He couldn't have gone far, and wherever he's going, it's going to be on foot. If we go now, he might still be on campus. We'll split up and look for him."

With haste, Peter and Olivia parted for the door, Astrid at their heels.

"Come on, Walter!" she urged.

And Walter obliged, easing blissfully into his every stride.

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>"Attention all students and staff; this is the dean speaking. It seems there's a bald man with no eyebrows in pyjamas walking around on campus. If anyone spots this individual, please report where you saw him to the head office and make sure to stay clear from him. I repeat, notify head office where you saw him and make no attempts to interact. I'd also like to take this opportunity to remind everyone of the Women's volleyball semi-finals game taking place tonight at the gymnasium, where our team will be competing against Princeton University. Have a pleasant day!"<p>

The message on the intercom was relayed around a minute after Peter notified the faculty of the situation. At the same time, Olivia placed a call to Broyles, and she let everyone know that he was sending reinforcements to secure a perimeter around the campus, as well as additional agents to assist in the search proper. Begrudging, Peter went off to search the medical and dental institutions while Olivia went to scour main halls and cafeterias. Astrid and Walter, meanwhile, headed out to search outside in Harvard Yard and surrounding expanses.

FBI agents arrived on campus around thirty minutes after the search began.

The perimeter was set in two concentric rings, one around the edges of Harvard's grounds, and the second a few blocks past, just to make sure that nothing slipped between their fingers; when Philip Broyles heard an Observer was loose at Harvard, he made sure to take no chances.

Broyles was walking to meet the Fringe team on a field where he had summoned them. What students were not currently in class kept a safe distance, speaking in hushed voices, minds alight with theories on the business of the federal agents. He barked orders into his transceiver, a couple of agents tailing his pressing strides. Broyles always has been an intimidating man, but as he came to a halt before them, his stare was strong enough that Peter felt the agent's eyes would peel off his face from sheer intensity if they rested on him for too long.

Even as Broyles approached, Peter was preparing to defend his actions, but he cut Bishop off.

"You can explain yourself later," he told him sternly. He had gotten the general gist of the situation from Olivia, and he wasn't keen on what he had heard. "Right now, we have a fugitive on the loose. What's our status?"

Olivia's observance of the chain of command compelled her to speak first.

"So far, we've fanned out the general area around the Kresge building, including the nearby buildings and dorms, but we haven't spotted him yet. We've alerted the faculty and they sent a message out on the PA system, but no one's reported a sighting yet."

"Alright, people," said Broyles. "It's been forty minutes since the target's gone missing; if he's on foot, then he could have already left the University. I've established a perimeter around the campus, and setup patrols and sentries regularly in a three mile radius. But if he hasn't left, I want every inch of this place covered until we do find him. Dunham, you'll head one team to search the facilities. Agent Farnsworth, you'll coordinate a search of the dormitories. Peter, I'm sending you to check out the main halls and libraries. And I'll cover the faculties, starting with the science department."

"What about me?" asked Walter, tugging at the back of his pants in irritation.

"You're coming with me, Walter," said Peter.

Broyles nodded in approval. "Move out!"

The four teams splintered in direction of their assigned sectors.

They found the Observer around an hour into their search.

"Be advised, the target has been located," came the message on the walkie-talkies. "I repeat; target has been located. Currently in the Kresge Building, Room 314."

Walter and Peter were making their way through the Grossman Library when they heard the call.

"He's in the Lab!" said Peter with a mix of urgency and puzzlement.

The Bishops crossed paths with Astrid on the way, and they jogged to the Lab. They passed a couple of agents in the corridor, and four more were found inside the Lab, weapons poised on the target. September stood at the center of the Lab, head tilting at the sight of familiar faces.

"Put down your guns!" ordered Peter. "He isn't dangerous, I promise."

Broyles charged in then, only to see a bald man in pyjamas.

"It's alright. Do as he – the _hell_?

The agents made themselves at ease. Broyles gave Peter an inquisitive glare.

_Seriously? _His raised eyebrows asked. Peter gave a defeated half-shrug in response, as well as a small nod.

_Yeah, seriously._

The Boy then addressed the fugitive with open annoyance.

"September, where have you been all this time? We've been looking for you for the past hour and a half!"

He seemed puzzled.

"While you were discussing my fate, I developed the need to urinate, and so I went to the bathroom," he explained. "When I emerged, you were all absent. I decided to wait here until you returned, as I knew you would eventually."

"If you were here all along, then how in the world did we miss you?" asked Peter, scratching his head.

"I was about to leave the bathroom when you suddenly opened the door, and I was trapped behind it. You must not have seen me, because you quickly closed the door again. When I was determined that it was safe to open the door, I exited the bathroom. You were gone by then."

Broyles' head slowly pivoted until his seething eyes met Peter's.

"Are you telling me that I've deployed significant resources and that we've been running around in circles for the past hour and a half when it turns out he _never left in the first place_?" he asked, tone laced with anger.

"Isn't he just _precious_?" quipped a brooding Peter. "God's little gift to humanity."

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p>September allowed himself to be taken to the Federal Building without struggle, still wearing his blue pajamas and remaining oddly stoic; it was not the first time he was to pass judgement.<p>

The Observer was brought into an interrogation room, where he was kept under surveillance as Peter and Walter pleaded their case with the head of Fringe Division in his office. Olivia and Astrid were present, but rarely spoke unless Broyles bid them to, where they would assert their lack of complicity in this event.

Peter started from the beginning, explaining how September showed up in their home one day, and the circumstances that led the Observer to seek them out. He tried to explain why he allowed him to stay at the Bishop household, but Broyles wouldn't have any of it; with such a high-priority individual as the Observer, they might as well have been harbouring a fugitive.

He also stated his intention of interrogating the Observer to see what he might know, but Peter assured him that it would be an exercise in futility.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," said the Boy as Broyles headed inside the interrogation.

It was behind the one-way mirror to the room that the Fringe team was now assembled, almost an hour into the interrogation. Yet it wasn't so much an interrogation as it was Broyles listening to everything that September had to say; for upon being told that full cooperation was in his best interest, the Observer went all out, explaining the reasons for his exile and the events that led up to him seeking the aid of the Bishops with a clarity that made it seem as though he were reliving every moment, poring over every detail, no matter how mundane.

Almost ten minutes after September stopped speaking, Broyles finally rose from his seat and went for the door without a word. He emerged from the room and slowly closed the door, seemingly shell-shocked.

"Broyles –"

"–Peter," said Broyles, interrupting Bishop. "From what I've been able to piece together, your story checks out, and it doesn't seem that he poses any threats, or that he or his people mean us harm. But –" Broyles raised his hand to stop Peter before he could speak. "– even so, I'm restricting him to this building under strict surveillance until we can figure out what to do with him." He held out his hand to quell Peter's protest. "Now, if you'll excuse... I'm going to go sit in my office for awhile."

He made his wordless way past the group, a profoundly perturbed expression hanging on his carved features; though as he went down the hall with tired steps, they could hear him mutter to himself in incomprehension.

"..._Dodos_?"

* * *

><p>XxXxXxXxXxX<p>

* * *

><p><em>AN: This marks a new "phase" in the OSOD saga. The next chapter or two will, along with this one, comprise a mini-arc of sorts. There will probably be a couple of mini-arcs throughout the story; I have roughly 30 chapters of ideas to play with, after all. ;)_

_As a side note, I know it's been a while since I've updated this story; I've been hard at work on my other ongoing Fringe project. Once that is done, I will resume writing for OSOD, so hang tight! 8D  
><em>


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